


Burning Bright

by Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)



Series: Flame of Durin [1]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Aftermath of battle, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Avari, Canon-Typical Violence, Cultural Differences, Dwarf Women, GFY, Gen, Humor, Oaths and Bindings, Orcs, POV Original Character, Politics and Diplomacy, Snark, Unreliable Narrator, Women Being Awesome, battlefield medicine, chosen family, non-sexual nudity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-07
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 20:50:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 49,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/pseuds/Morgyn%20Leri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Battle of Five Armies, Thorin collapses next to an unexpected ally, expecting that he won't wake again. When he does, he has to deal with a cranky, snarky elf - excuse me, avari - politics and diplomacy that he'd thought he'd left for others, and learning to be King Under the Mountain in fact as well as name.</p><p>Ráva - said avari - is quite happy to watch, and be a pain in Thorin's neck, though this is the first he's met Thorin (or, indeed, any of the line of Durin). Even if being around Thorin does leave his head feeling rather like he's the anvil for a particularly sadistic smith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To Weather the Storm

**Author's Note:**

> Note: This uses many of the same OCs as [Zâbad](http://archiveofourown.org/works/957403), and much of the same history as the greater AU in which that story is set. It does, however, take a different direction for the last three hundred years or so of the Third Age. And is me indulging my desire to do an AU where Thorin, Fíli, and Kíli survive the Battle of the Five Armies.
> 
> Note the second: Asëa aranion is the quenya for athelas/kingsfoil, and since I've been using quenya for the names of the avari, I figured they would use the quenya for referring to althelas/kingsfoil as well.
> 
> Note the third: And I forgot when I first posted - massive thanks to [lferion](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion) for beta-reading, and for bouncing ideas and thoughts back and forth on this.

"The next time I think to take up a dwarrow on the offer of an adventure to fetch his wayward war-master home, I'll think twice on the offer and refuse." Ráva doesn't even bother to open his eyes, leaning against a boulder that had been his shield a couple of times in the battle he'd not intended to walk into. At least he'd come out the other side still in one piece, and Vorkha wouldn't have to explain to his brother just how four thousand years of life had been ended by a wayward band of orcs.

Well. A wayward _army_ of orcs.

The snort that greets his pronouncement is clearly not Vorkha, and Ráva opens his eyes a moment, before slamming them shut once more. Ah. The reason why he'd actually come close to being murdered by orcs. Did none of the west-walkers have the slightest inkling of how to teach a dwarrow to shield that flame of theirs? He should have listened when Haldasîcil had told him of the line of Durin, and the flame that shone so clear and bright.

"Perhaps you ought to have, if you find dwarrows so annoying, Master Elf." Thorin doesn't sound terribly impressed by Ráva, and Ráva fights the urge to tell him the feeling is mutual, if only because Ráva has never enjoyed the idea of pain.

"Only those who have more power than sense enough to veil it." Well, maybe he is going to tell him the feeling is mutual, if not in so many words. There is, after all, only so much of sadistic little imps taking awls to the inside of his skull he can take. "And I am not some west-walking fool of an elf, I am avari, I will thank you to remember that."

He can all but see Thorin's affront at the tone and the words, but at the moment, Ráva just hopes it makes him go away. Far enough away that he can think long enough to find the west-walking _idiots_ who thought it would be a perfectly lovely idea to let anyone go walking around with that much power visible to any who could see it. Didn't they know that's how the Masters of the Darkness found the avari in the first place?

No, no, of course not. Ráva pries open one eye, surprised to see Thorin hasn't left yet. "Did I not insult you enough to make you go away yet, King Under the Mountain?"

Thorin snorts, shifting his weight to lean against another boulder long enough to use it to slide to the ground. Admitting to some bit of weakness in front of... well, in front of anyone would be a feat for one of Durin's line, or so Haldasîcil - and even Moriornë - have always said. Ráva almost wishes he could have met one before now, if only so he'd have been prepared for the painful radiance of it.

"Ah." Ráva doesn't think Thorin's actually managed to put together a coherent thought to reply to that, but the last time he'd seen exhaustion like that - or someone who had left their inner self so unshielded - Haldasîcil had been in his forge day and night for nearly a week without rest.

He turns his head, closing his eyes again. He needs a moment before he tries to figure out where Thorin is injured, and that's if the stubborn, over-extended, exhausted dwarrow will even allow him. It really would have been better if it had been Vorkha who wandered over, not Thorin. At least, for Ráva's ability to do just about anything other than be glad there aren't any orcs about to take advantage of his incapacitated state.

The heavy tread of boots signals the arrival of someone else, and Ráva doesn't dare open his eyes again yet. It's winter, the sun is weak, and it's still far too bright right now. "Vorkha?"

Silence. Which is enough for Ráva to make an attempt at opening his eyes, closing them quickly again once he catches a glimpse of the dwarrow who'd come over. The one who doesn't speak anything that Ráva recognizes (he suspects if Haldasîcil were here, the smith _would_ be able to communicate with the dwarrow, but he's still home, as he always is). At least he isn't loud or particularly painful to look at.

Fingers gently touch his shoulder, and Ráva opens his eyes with a frown and a wince to meet a curious and concerned gaze. He hesitates a moment before shaking his head. "Nothing to be done for it, and no injuries worth mentioning." He at least knows enough of healing to be able assess his own injuries, and to treat others for minor ailments. If, of course, he's not trying to keep his own head from splitting under the hammer-blows of unwelcome sadists.

There's a soft snort, and then Thorin's voice.

"You're as stubborn as any dwarf, Master Avari."

It's at least not _elf_ , but Ráva sighs, and tilts his head back against the boulder. "I am Ráva, at your service. However poor or unwelcome that may be, King Thorin." He pauses, a wave of pain pulsing through his head. "And I should well be stubborn, living as close to dwarrows as I have since my youth. I dare say they'd be deeply insulted to think they haven't worn off on me, if even a little."

He doesn't dare mention that even dwarrows cannot out-stubborn the avari who have been around since before the first rising of the sun. Ráva doesn't know anyone who's been able to out-stubborn any of them that still live.

There's no speaking again for a while, though it's not silent at all. Ráva suspects that there's hand-talk going back and forth between Thorin and the other dwarrow. Whatever it is finally ends in the scraping of metal on rock, which Ráva suspects is Thorin falling over. And the lessening of his headache, if only a little, is enough to allow him to open his eyes to bear that fact out.

"You should find someone to get a proper tent up for him to rest in, if there are any tents left for such a thing." Ráva smiles briefly at the eye-roll from the dwarrow who hasn't actually spoken, and shifts so he can actually look at Thorin's wounds. A proper healer would be better, but at least Ráva's familiar with what over-extending an arcane gift does to a body. Granted, Haldasîcil is avari, not dwarrow, but the principles still hold. "I'll not let anything harm him, if that eases your mind enough to go looking for such."

A snort is the response, and a long, critical look from the dwarrow before he moves off enough to be seen by others. Clearly not willing to leave Thorin alone, but Ráva isn't quite certain he has enough energy to care at the moment. At least checking wounds is something simple, and while they're nasty enough, he doesn't think Thorin will die from them.

"Stubborn and strong enough to last out just about anything." Ráva shakes his head before he leans back against the rock again. "Perhaps I'll find a way to teach you how to shield that flame of yours, after this mess," he waves a hand at the battlefield that stretches out around them, never mind that Thorin can't see the gesture or hear his words, "is cleaned up."

He lapses into silence once more after that, head leaning against the rock and eyes mostly shut against the still-present pain. Only when a remarkably large man comes to pick up Thorin does Ráva manage to pry his eyes open fully, and haul himself to his feet.

"Where?" He means to get more of a question out, but the man simply nods toward where a pavilion has been set up in what looks to be the only spot of level ground near, but not on, the battlefield. It's good enough, and Ráva follows along behind, although it says nothing good about his fondness for the sadistic little bastards who've only switched from hammers to drums, despite his certainty that the pain has faded somewhat.

Inside the pavilion, there are a a few dwarrows, one of which Ráva can recognize from description - Dwalin is the only dwarrow Ráva has heard of losing his hair - and he recognizes one who still hasn't spoken a word, though his hands are clearly doing enough speaking for him. He really should ask after names, but right now, he's more concerned with getting Thorin's wounds looked at, and finding a place to rest himself.

"The wounds need cleaned and bandaged, but you could figure that out yourself." Ráva leans against one of the poles holding up the tent after making sure he can stand straight enough to not appear to need assistance himself. "And he'll need salted broth and sweetened tea as soon as such can be prepared."

Ráva hopes he doesn't need to show them how to get liquids down Thorin's throat without him being awake, or he's going to have some unpleasant words for someone. He'll decide just who if everyone proves to be an idiot. Which thoughts he'll likely think unworthy of him later, when he hurts less, and is less tired. And probably after he's had his own wounds tended to, and some of the same liquids poured down his own throat.

"And you should sit down before you fall down." Dwalin is giving him a look that speaks louder than words about Ráva's foolishness in trying to hide wounds and exhaustion from a war-master, even if maybe he could have hid them from others. Or perhaps it's the other dwarrow who'd made sure others were aware of Ráva's refusal to see his own wounds tended when he'd known Thorin was in worse shape.

He'll have to let Moriornë lecture him about the perceptiveness of some dwarrow, and their sheer stubbornness again, even if he does know all of that. It's clearly not sunk into his head well enough if he's forgotten that when he's tired.

Or perhaps it's that he's spent the better part of the day trying not to be killed - or let those nearest him be killed - by the orcs. More orcs than he's seen in the rest of his life combined. He wonders what makes them so cursed common this far west. From the amused look Dwalin gives him, Ráva suspects he's just made that observation out loud, which is rather embarrassing. He hasn't spoken thoughts aloud that he intended to keep to himself since he was very young.

"Even you'll need to rest after that battle." Dwalin gestures to one corner of the tent, where Ráva won't be immediately visible to Thorin when the king wakes up, and where there has been something of a cot set up. Not likely meant for Ráva, but he's not above being a nuisance by taking up room where someone doesn't want him to be.

At least Thorin's unlikely to step on his head to get into a forge. The imps using his head as a drum have nothing on a cranky avari smith.

Once he's on the cot, though, his thoughts fragment and scatter as Ráva lets himself obey his body's pressing desire for rest. Thorin's resemblance to an exhausted Haldasîcil can wait until the physical wounds are tended to. And Ráva's rested.

* * *

"Where is the hobbit, and why is the elf in here?"

Thorin's words dragged Ráva out of the pleasant oblivion of sleep, and he made one of the rude gestures he'd learned from the dwarrow of River's Cradle, smiling to himself at the choked sound of shock it earned him. That, and the expression of mingled surprise and insult on Thorin's face are suitable recompense for being woken early and his head still feeling like the anvil for a sadistic smith.

"We still have yet to find the burglar among the bodies." There's a rough edge to Dwalin's voice, and Ráva turns to look at him. "We're still looking." But the chances that they'll find a body rather than a living hobbit - whatever a hobbit is - grow the longer they do not find him.

When Thorin tries to rise, likely to join the search, Ráva gets off the borrowed cot to take a long step across to where Thorin's been laid. At least his armor has been removed, and the wounds tended to, so Ráva doesn't have to worry about telling someone being that much of an idiot. Or assuming that Thorin is beyond saving.

"If you do not stay down, I will find someone willing to tie you to that bed." Ráva pushes Thorin back to the bed, and meets the glare directed at him with one of his own.

"I will not have some _elf_ telling me what to do!" There's exhaustion under the strength in Thorin's voice, and Ráva snorts.

"I already told you, I am avari, not west-walker. And since no one _else_ has either experience with the underlying problem as well as some foolish desire to endure pain they can avoid, I will tell you precisely what to do, unless you have some death-wish I'm unaware of?" Ráva raises an eyebrow, though he deeply doubts Thorin _wants_ to die. There had been more the desperation of someone with no way out but through in that last charge than suicidal desire.

No, the only one who had a death-wish around here right now is probably Ráva, and he's certain Thorin would be glad if he could kill Ráva with just a glare.

"You know, you remind me of a stubborn smith I know. Only he's actually somewhat frightening when he glares at me."

That just makes Thorin's expression darken, and Ráva smiles despite not feeling at all particularly cheerful. His head is beginning to feel worse now that Thorin is awake, even if he isn't half as painfully bright as he was during the battle, and Ráva is in no way inclined to be polite or nice, or anything that might resemble either of those things.

"Hail!" The unfamiliar voice accompanies the flap being opened, and someone ushering in a much smaller someone. Ráva glances over, and blinks, glad for the clear control the taller of the two has over the expression of his inner self. There's a sense of a very great power hiding behind the sort of veiling that Ráva is almost envious of - and certainly wishes Thorin were capable of right now.

"Thorin, I have brought him." The taller of the two nudges the shorter forward, and Ráva moves aside to lean against a tent pole once more, watching both. The shorter must be a hobbit, but the taller Ráva is less certain of. Not elf, not avari, and not man, for all his outward appearance is that of one.

There is silence from Thorin and the hobbit alike for a moment, and when Thorin does speak, his voice sounds almost raw to Ráva's ears. "I would take back my words and deeds at the gate."

Ráva knows he should probably withdraw, and give Thorin and the hobbit room for whatever must pass between them for an incident that had to have occurred before Ráva and Vorkha had arrived at the mountain. Should, but won't, because he's not leaving Thorin alone with the exhaustion that's weighing his inner self down as much as his outer self, and never mind that the dwarrow is unlikely to admit it aloud.

The hobbit kneels next to the bed, his expression clearly sorrowed, and reaches out to clasp one of Thorin's hands in his. "They were well-deserved, for what I did should not have been done, no matter how good my intentions in doing so. Your forgiveness is more than I deserve."

"No." Thorin pushes himself up, and Ráva rolls his eyes, but does not try to make him lie back down again. The injuries will probably do that for him soon enough, so long as Thorin doesn't make them worse. "There is more of good in you than you know, child of the kindly West. Some courage, and some wisdom, blended in measure."

The hobbit looks as if he's uncertain what to make of Thorin's words, but he at least has the good sense to smile, and Ráva would imagine that it holds a measure of forgiveness, because Thorin seems to lighten a little after that. He'd be more certain if Thorin had the first clue how to shield his soul, and didn't make Ráva's head feel like a piece of metal being pounded into shape.

It all feels awkward for a short moment after that, until the hobbit sways a little, and Ráva move automatically to catch him before he can fall over. "There's a cot there, to sleep if you need to." He smiles - well, perhaps more grimaces in a friendly manner - at the startled hobbit, and nods toward the cot he'd used earlier. "It's better than sleeping on the ground."

The irritated look is recognizable as someone being told something they already know from experience, and Ráva wonders for a moment how long he's been asleep. It hadn't yet been nightfall when he'd settled - collapsed, but he'll not tell that to anyone - onto the cot himself. Which means either the hobbit had been knocked on the head hard enough to pass out, or Ráva had been asleep rather longer than he'd expected to be.

"Are you injured?" he asks, hoping that hobbits aren't as stubborn as dwarrows about admitting to wounds.

"A nasty knock on the head, I think." The hobbit grimaces, and lets himself be led over to the cot, where Ráva kneels down to be more on a level with him. "But I have a helm and a hard skull, so no harm done that won't heal, I should think."

"All the same, you should let someone check to be certain your skull isn't cracked." Ráva would offer to do so himself, but he can feel Thorin's glare on his back, and his head is beginning to feel rather more split open than he wants to admit to anyone. "And you can stop wishing me gone from your sight quite so loudly, King Thorin. Just because you're a stubborn idiot of a dwarrow with an unveiled flame doesn't mean I'm going to walk away so easily," he says without turning around.

The hobbit looks between them with a small frown of confusion, and Ráva shrugs, pushing himself to his feet once more. "Sleep, hobbit."

"My name is Bilbo Baggins." There's another flash of muted annoyance, and Ráva nods in acknowledgement of the unintentional slight he'd paid Bilbo.

"I am Ráva." He returns to the tent pole he'd been using earlier to lean against, once again watching Thorin, who glares back tiredly. Already exhausted again, and no doubt unlikely to even make an attempt to rest while Ráva is still here. "You're going to have a permanent scowl on your face if you keep glaring like that, you know. It would be awful for diplomacy."

Dwalin snorts, and Thorin's glare turns to the other dwarrow for a long moment before he sighs, and settles instead for giving Ráva a tired and irritated look before he slides back down onto his back. Clearly not happy that he's being forced to show any weakness at all in front of Ráva, no matter that he really doesn't have a choice. And.

"It's not weakness to need to rest." Ráva closes his eyes so he has at least a chance of seeing more of the flame than he has to. "Particularly after fighting a battle, and being the one every warrior on your side rallies around, dwarrow, man, and elf." And one overly-adventurous avari, one hobbit, and one... whatever the one who brought the hobbit to Thorin is.

"Why are you still here?" Thorin doesn't sound as annoyed as he sounds tired, though Ráva expects he'd like to be more of the former than the latter.

"At Erebor? Because this is where I and my companions were traveling. In this pavilion? Because I'm an idiot who stands outside in thunderstorms." Ráva shrugs, hoping it's as dismissively light as he'd intended to be, and suspecting it fell somewhat short. "You over-extended yourself on the battlefield, King Thorin, in a way that I doubt many dwarrow could or will be able to understand in quite the same fashion. If I could trust that one of the west-walkers would actually explain it, and how to deal with it, I would find a nice quiet place to work out an agreement with whatever smith thinks my head is his anvil, and you wouldn't be bothered with me."

This time the snort is from Thorin, and Ráva opens one eye when he hears the shifting of the cot. Thorin doesn't look like he's attempting to get up, just find a comfortable position, and Ráva lets his eye close again.

"Then explain it." Thorin's order is at least bare of any insulting address, though Ráva grimaces at being ordered about by, well, anyone. Even a King - and no matter what else he might be, Thorin is distinctly a King, in a sense that Ráva hasn't really encountered for all the tales he's heard of such.

"You are at least aware of the Flame - it's too focused for you not to be, so do not tell me you don't know of what I speak." Ráva pauses, opening his eyes so he can watch Thorin's expression. He can't try to explain this without seeing the dwarrow, or how can he know if what he's saying is actually being taken in? "In most dwarrow, it is dim and diffuse - something like a candle in a cloudy glass."

His gaze goes to Dwalin a moment, before returning to Thorin. "Others are more bare candles, bright, clear, but nothing remarkable." Or at all painful, he doesn't add. "I rather thought staring into the sun might be less painful than how bright you shone in the last charge of the battle."

"And all elves can see this?" Thorin looks unexpectedly entertained by the idea, and Ráva snorts, despite the jolt of pain that sends through his head.

"I don't know. It is something I can see. That a healer would be able to see, that one of the tree-talkers among the avari can see. Most avari, though, wouldn't see it. I would be surprised if it were different among the west-walkers, but I cannot know unless I ask them."

Something which he is loathe to do at the moment, if mostly because he's likely to give into the desire to scold them for doing nothing to give Thorin even the most basic instruction on how to shield his inner self. Should, of course, any of them still prove to have the ability to see it quite so clearly, which he would expect in at least a few. They do, after all, have healers among them.

"There are others, too, who can see it," he says after a moment, a small frown on his face. "Although that is more properly told by those who were there." Ráva closes his eyes a moment, hearing the voices of Haldasîcil, of his mother, of his father. Teaching him to hide inside himself, because the master of the shadow would find him if he could not. As they had been found, and their companions stolen away in the time before the first rising of the sun.

"So you expect me to hide?" The undertone of scorn in his voice makes Ráva open his eyes, glaring back at Thorin. "To huddle frightened of something you..."

"Sometimes it's not a matter of hiding because you are frightened, but because you can't fight it if you can't even get close enough to properly do so!"

Ráva grimaces as the pain spikes once more, reaching up to rub at his temples, trying to bring his temper back under his usual control. He _has_ to teach Thorin some manner of veiling his inner self, because if he has to live with this pain, he'll lose some of himself to it.

It is a long moment before he realizes Thorin hasn't come up with a retort, and he looks over to see a thoughtful expression on Thorin's face that is encouraging. He waits, silent, until Thorin nods, and says, "Then teach me."

Letting out a breath, Ráva smiles, letting himself slide down the pole to sit on the ground. "Thank you for allowing me that honor, King Thorin." Now all he need do is hope he can teach through the pain in his head - especially as Thorin recovers, and the flame that's muted grows brighter once. He stays silent for long minutes, leaning his head back against the pole as he draws on the memories of learning how to hide himself.

"Think of it as a single flame, burning in the dark." He remembers his mother's voice as a steady, calm constant, but his own is ragged-edged. "Something you can reach out and touch. Hold in your hands." It's how to teach someone to use the flame, and the simplest way to work toward veiling it. "Wrap your hands around it, to cover it."

A simple child's shield, that would at least provide relief long enough for Ráva to recover from the pain of being too close to someone who burns as brightly as Thorin. If, of course, Thorin can manage to make it work, and bothers to use it. Ráva watches as Thorin frowns, and hopes the dwarrow can make it work. He's certain Thorin knows how to use the flame, so it shouldn't be terribly difficult for him to create this much of a shield.

Except that he's not sure it actually works before Thorin passes out once more, and Ráva sighs, thumping his head back against the tent pole a moment. Closing his eyes and waiting for a long moment. The pounding in his head is somewhat diminished, and when he looks at Thorin again, the flame does appear to be less bright, at least.

Letting out another frustrated sigh, Ráva uses the tent pole to get to his feet, feeling rather less graceful than he usually is, and looks over to meet Dwalin's gaze for a long moment. "If he wakes any time soon, please send someone to find me. I'll be... somewhere." He's not certain where to go in order to achieve what he wants, save anywhere but in the pavilion even with an unconscious Thorin at the moment.

Turning, he glances at Bilbo, noting that the hobbit is as unconscious as Thorin, before he flees out of the tent into a chilly morning, which makes him grimace. He'd been asleep far longer than he'd expected, and now, what had been a battlefield is now bustling with activity as bodies are picked over before being burned or buried. The sound is enough to grate on his nerves, and Ráva pivots on one heel, walking up the mountain, away from the noise and the people.

* * *

"So this is where you've gone and hidden yourself."

Vorkha's voice drags Ráva back to himself, and he shifts, blinking as he takes a deep breath. It's nearly sunset, and his head is feeling clearer than it has since they'd dove into the battle yesterday, which is a blessing, especially when he recalls the usual funeral rites the dwarrow of the Orocarni carry out for those who die away from their halls.

"It had the advantage of being far from everything that's happening." Ráva looks down the mountain toward the battlefield, which is certainly less active than it had been. "How many?"

"Two. Akhi and Hjördís. Mahal guide them home." Vorkha tilted his head toward the path back down. "They stood between the princes and the orcs after the younger fell." He pauses as Ráva falls in beside him. "The princes still live, though they'll be a while healing."

Vorkha is quiet as they continue down the mountain, to where a pyre has been laid, with the two fallen dwarrows laid out on top. Dwalin is there, and Ráva blinks to see two others that are unfamiliar to him, a dark-haired dwarrow standing between Dwalin and a blond-haired dwarrow. They're looking worse for wear, and they both make him frown slightly. They'll have the same clarity and brightness of flame as Thorin, in time, although it's not yet there.

Hrafn is standing at the head of the pyre with a torch, two swords at his feet - the matched blades Akhi and Hjördís had carried into battle. He waits as the others murmur farewells, and lights the fire as the sun sinks below the horizon. Picking up the swords as he steps back to avoid the flames licking at the oil-soaked wood. He'll remain - they'll all remain - until the last flames die. The swords will be passed onto new owners then, as well.

It's a rite that Ráva has not seen carried out, though the dwarrows who work as mercenaries often have spoken of it. They rarely have children or students to pass their weapons and armor to, and would prefer they went to those who would have use of it.

"Prince Fíli. Prince Kíli." Hrafn speaks as the last spark winks out, drawing the attention of the two dwarrows with Dwalin. "They are Storm and Night." Hrafn holds out the two swords, hilt first, his expression closed. "May they serve you as well as they did those who bore them before you."

The princes look as confused as Ráva, though after a moment, they accept the swords, which has the effect of releasing the rest of them to leave. No one stays long after that, and Ráva only hesitates briefly before he starts back toward Thorin's pavilion. No one had come to tell him Thorin had woken, so while he had hopes the dwarrow still slept, he also worried if he truly hadn't awakened. Especially after the earlier attempt to begin to teach him to hide his inner self had ended with Thorin passing out.

When he opens the flap carefully, ignoring the disgruntled looks from the dwarrow outside, Dwalin hasn't yet returned, and instead the hobbit is sitting next to the bed, keeping vigil over Thorin. The dwarrow appears to still be sleeping, or to be sleeping again, and Ráva slips inside, allowing the flap to fall closed behind him.

"Has he woken at all today?" he asks, his voice barely more than a whisper. The tent pole he'd used earlier is a good place to lean, especially with the first proddings of a new headache, like a child with a toy hammer. Watching Thorin instead of looking at the hobbit, even though it does no good for his head. He is still bright, but not with the immediately blinding and painful clarity of yesterday's battle.

"For a while this afternoon." Bilbo shrugs, fussing with the blankets enough to draw Ráva's attention for a moment, before he stilled. "He wanted to be left alone, at least after he'd finished the broth and tea Óin brought him, or so I've been told."

"I assume he wasn't allowed to be left entirely alone?" Ráva raises an eyebrow, and Bilbo smiles briefly a moment.

"If you count a sleeping hobbit for company. No one cared to wake me, even for Thorin to have the tent to himself." Bilbo shrugs, another smile crossing his face, if as fleetingly as the previous one. "He fell asleep again perhaps an hour ago, after spending most of the evening in thought, as far as I could be certain."

Perhaps thinking on what Ráva had been trying to teach him this morning, though hopefully not trying in quite the same fashion he had then. Ráva is beginning to think that how he'd been describing the task might have been part of the problem, and while he's not quite certain how to amend that, it is clear he'll have to change it somewhat. It might do to talk to Vorkha - or perhaps to Dwalin, since the bald dwarrow had been present earlier - about where he might be wrong.

That did assume he recalled the need to do so as his headache steadily worsened with his proximity to Thorin. Ráva snorts to himself, wondering if he might find willowbark tea in camp, or asëa aranion. It might not dull the pain, but it will hopefully help keep his thoughts clear despite the pain. Provided there was any of the herb where it could be found near here.

"Good, then." Ráva looks at Thorin again a moment before meeting Bilbo's gaze for a long moment. "Do you need to sleep soon, yourself? I can watch over King Thorin until Dwalin returns, if that is the case."

Bilbo is silent a moment, watching Ráva, and then looking at Thorin. "Not yet. I feel as if I slept most of the day away, and I would feel rather more than useless if all I did was go right back to sleep tonight." He shrugs, hunched forward a little. "Besides, I don't think I could sleep right now. Seeing the battlefield once was enough, without it invading my dreams, too."

Another reason to find if there is any asëa aranion, to soothe the dreams of the hobbit, and perhaps of Thorin, if he's dreaming at all as he sleeps. Ráva looks between Thorin and Bilbo again, before nodding to himself. It will do good to find some, and it will keep the headache at bay for a while longer if he doesn't stay in the tent too long.

"I will return as soon as I might, then. I hope, with something to ease nightmares." Ráva leaves the tent once Bilbo nods, and looks over what he can of the camp. There's a cluster of tents that are at the edge of the battlefield, in a place where it would be fairly easy to bring wounded from nearly anywhere on the field to the tents, and a brief smile crosses his face before he heads in that direction. Healers should have the herb he's looking for, if there is any available.

It takes a few moments to determine which of the tents has a healer who's awake, and Ráva hesitates when he sees the healer is one of the west-walkers. He had chosen to come with Vorkha and the others in part because of curiosity about those who'd gone west in the wake of a stranger, but after seeing Thorin's lack of any manner of shielding his inner self, and hearing the contempt in his voice for those he called elf...

"I thought all the injured had already been tended to." The healer is watching Ráva with a mildly curious expression, and Ráva smiles briefly.

"I have no injuries I could not tend to myself." He pauses, studying the healer with a curiosity of his own. "I would, though, need some herbs for a friend. He'd been struck in the head during the battle, and has something of a headache, as well as nightmares. Would you have willowbark and asëa aranion?"

"Willowbark we have, yes, but I'm not certain of the other." The healer frowns, beckoning Ráva to follow her into one of the tents. "I have not heard the name. Did your friend ask for that, particularly?"

"No. I said I would bring back something for the nightmares as well as the headache. It is a very common plant in the east, and I would think it common in the west as well, since the men who'd sailed around the entirety of Arda to arrive on our shores knew it when they arrived."

The healer, who'd been reaching into a chest of medicines, paused, turning to look at him with confusion. "The east? I thought Mirkwood was the furthest east of all our kingdoms."

"Of kingdoms not of Men, yes. We never called any of ours king, nor claimed a kingdom." Ráva sighs, holding out his hand for the willowbark. "It is an old name for the herb I want, so perhaps the name has changed, even for those of you who walked west."

"Oh." The healer lifts a drawstring bag free of the chest, studying Ráva a moment before measuring out some of the bark inside into another, smaller bag. "You must be the elda who came with the dwarves who saved Thorin and his boys."

Ráva met her gaze with a stony expression. "It is a common herb, with a refreshing scent and a soothing effect on those who have nightmares. It's also useful to draw out poison from wounds. As for myself, I am not elda. My name is Ráva, and when your kin walked west after a stranger, my kin found refuge in the east between the mountains and the sea."

The healer pauses, and then smiles briefly. "Athelas. I think I should have some, or if not, then a runner may be sent back home to fetch some." She looks away, returning the bag of willowbark, and taking out another. "It's not as effective dried as if it were fresh, but it would be hard to find any here."

"It will suffice." Ráva accepts the bag, hoping to leave without anything further, but the healer reaches out to lay a hand on his arm, stopping him.

"Why so offended to be called elda?"

"Because I know what it is like to have kin stolen in the dark, to be destroyed by the masters of the shadow. Because I will not follow some stranger whose fëa blinds all those who look at him, just because I am told to. Because my kin grew up learning to take care of themselves and to build their own homes without needing to be told to do so by those who claim to be above them." Ráva smiled sharply. "Why should I desire to be called anything but what I am?"

"The avari were all taken by Morgoth. All the histories say so."

"Some were. Others learned to hide their fëa, and to fight what was made of their kin." Ráva shrugs her hand off, ducking back through the door. "I have a friend to tend to, excuse me."

He doesn't even stop to hear if she acknowledged him, just hurries back to the pavilion, where even with the headache, he's far more comfortable. Inside, there are two pots on trivets, filling the air with the smell of broth and tea. Bilbo is filling one bowl, and turns almost as soon as Ráva's inside, smiling with more cheer than he'd had when Ráva had left, glancing at the bags in Ráva's hands.

"Oh, here, let me take those - just hold this, would you? - and I'll have Bofur outside find us some hot water to steep this in, shall I? Unless of course you'd rather steep it in the tea, which might actually make willowbark palatable, really. Ah, here, you'll want one of these, unless you're planning to drink that straight from the bowl."

Ráva blinks as the hobbit deftly trades him a bowl of broth for the herbs, and then hands Ráva a spoon as well. He looks down at it a moment, the smell reminding him that he hasn't eaten today - actually, isn't quite certain when last he ate, though it had to have been before the battle. Lifting it to his lips, he drinks it down carefully as not to spill a drop.

Bilbo is watching him with a faint smile, and a bit of fear in his expression, and Ráva meets his gaze a moment before letting out a rueful chuckle.

"I do believe that is the first time anyone has managed to reverse the role I usually play so neatly." He glances down at the bags Bilbo's clutching. "The willow-bark you can steep in the tea - it might well do Thorin more good than it will me. The asëa aranion would be best with fresh, hot water. The vapor from its steeping will do as well for your nightmares, and indeed, for all of us, I think. Banish the smell of the battlefield from in here, at least."

"Ah. Yes. Yes, I think I can arrange that." Bilbo looks at him cautiously, as if not quite sure he's not going to be in trouble.

"Thank you, Bilbo. I hadn't really properly thought about eating until you handed me the bowl." Ráva moves around him, sitting down at the base of the tent pole he's laid claim to, and eying the pots. He should have more of the broth, he knows, and some of the tea - though he'll wait on the latter until the willowbark has had a chance to steep some. He looks back to Bilbo, raising an eyebrow. "I promise I'll have another bowl of broth in a moment. And if Thorin wakes while you're sending someone for hot water, I can at least make sure he has a bowl of his own."

"Of course." Bilbo flashes him a smile, though there's worry underlying it, and then turns away, going to the tent flap, likely to send the guard there for hot water.

"Broth and tea are not how to help injuries recover, elf." Thorin's voice draws Ráva's attention to him, and Ráva gives him a sharp-edged smile for the insult.

"They're a fair sight better than nothing, and I doubt anyone was given to a desire to hunt dinner today." Ráva ladles out a bowl of broth, holding it out to Thorin. The headache is still a distant thing, no doubt because Thorin's either flat exhausted or managing at least some meager shielding - or both. "And if you cannot recall I am not some soft little west-walker, at least recall my name. I have had quite enough today with fools who believe me less than I am. And you, I don't take for a fool."

"Not many people would call me that to my face." Thorin takes the bowl, sipping at the broth with a small frown. He drains it, though, which is all Ráva's concerned about.

"As I said earlier, you remind me of a smith I know." Ráva curls up one corner in a wry smile. "He has to be reminded he's not a dwarrow from time to time, to spend a week in his forge without breaking for food or drink or rest."

Thorin snorts, and after a moment, passes the bowl back to Ráva. "He's a fool if he gets lost in his work so easily."

"I do not know that I would call him a fool, either." Ráva dips a small amount of the tea out of its pot, checking the taste to see if perhaps the willowbark has steeped enough. "Stubborn, yes, and fond of his craft, but no fool."

Haldasîcil would not have survived to see the first rising of the sun if he'd been anything less than determined and crafty and intelligent. He certainly wouldn't have been able to make the blade Ráva's carried for three thousand years.

Shaking his head a little to clear his thoughts, Ráva fills the bowl half-full of the tea, thick with honey, and with the bitter under-notes of willowbark, passing it to Thorin once more. "There are Works that take that long a time to finish properly, and he does not work with others." He chuckles, leaning his head back against the tent pole. "It is that he does not like to rest after for as long as he ought. So someone has to look after him."

"Who looks after him while you're here?" That question comes from Bilbo, who's brought more bowls, and is holding out one half-filled with tea for Ráva, giving him a pointed look when he hesitates to take it.

"His bond-sister." Ráva holds the bowl in both hands for the moment, thinking about home. His mother would be scolding Haldasîcil if he had locked himself in his forge again, or coaxing him into taking on a new student, perhaps. If anyone had proven to have enough skill and talent to make the older avari do more than dismiss them.

"Drink that." Bilbo is filling a bowl with broth, settling down where he can lean against the bed while still watching Ráva. Between Thorin and Ráva, though Ráva doesn't intend to do any harm to Thorin. He supposes Bilbo can't be certain of that, though, and it's interesting to see that the hobbit is stubbornly loyal to the dwarrow, despite the implication of the first words Ráva had heard pass between the two.

Smiling, Ráva does as he's bid, draining the bowl as quickly as he might, before the willowbark's bitterness could do more than catch at the back of his throat.

Silence falls after, if not an entirely easy one, until a large dwarrow with a red loop-braided beard comes bustling through the tent flap with yet another pot that steamed in the chill air. Ráva goes to help, but is waved back before he can get to his feet.

"It's merely a pot, nothing difficult." He sets another trivet near the other two, the pot going on top easily, before he checks the broth and the tea. "If you need more sent up, Bilbo, just send Bofur again."

He's out again before Bilbo is properly on his feet, and opening the second bag Ráva had brought back from the healer's tent. Gently shaking out the dried leaves onto the surface of the water, where they soon began to fill the tent with the familiar smell of asëa aranion. Ráva draws in a deep breath, closing his eyes.

"You should take the cot, Bilbo," he says without opening his eyes. "If it will make it simpler, I give you my word I will do no one any harm."

"Oh, I don't expect you will, or at least, not without be well and truly harmed yourself." Ráva can hear Bilbo moving as he speaks, the clack of the wooden bowls being stacked, the shifting of fabric and jingle of mail. "Although this is quite nice, I'm not sure I'll be able to sleep as yet - and not just the nightmares, mind, but again that feeling of being quite useless if all I do is sleep."

"Sleep. You do no one any good if you run yourself ragged." Ráva pauses. "And I shall sleep myself, once I know you are at least making the attempt." The noises pause a moment, and Ráva opens his eyes, watching Bilbo as the hobbit hesitates. "He will be here in the morning," he murmurs after a glance at Thorin. "Dwarrow are stubborn, strong people."

Glancing at Thorin himself, Bilbo smiles fondly before letting out a quiet sigh. "Yes, they are quite. I suppose it won't hurt to sleep now, will it?" He doesn't seem to be expecting an answer, as he goes over to the cot, wrapping himself up in the blanket.

Ráva nods, and closes his eyes once more, the better to focus inward, and work on some puzzles he still doesn't have answers to.

* * *

Ráva is awake early, slipping out of the tent as the first pale rays of light stretch up from the eastern horizon. There are two dwarrows at the entrance, who exchange a flurry of hand-talk before the one with an axe buried in his head follows Ráva. There are no words - Ráva doesn't speak Khuzdul, and he understands Bifur speaks only that language (there are advantages to being able to think, and remembering his brother's tales passed on from those he'd heard in Dragon's Teeth is just one of them) - as they move through the camp until Ráva finds the kitchen tents.

Already there are cooks awake, preparing food for those coming off patrols, and breakfast for those waking up. The rotund dwarrow who'd brought up the water the night before is presiding over the entire operation as far as Ráva can determine, and he slips around cooks and dwarrow soldiers and a handful of men to reach him.

"Ah, master elf. Bombur, at your service. What brings you down here?" There's worry in his expression, and Ráva smiles reassuringly.

"Merely in search of a loaf of bread, or perhaps two. I would rather not argue with the king over what does or does not make real food." And bread is easily soaked in broth, even if it's long gone cold. The tea, too, though that Ráva suspects could well be spread on the bread, as heavy with honey as it is. "And I am Ráva, at your service."

"Bread is little enough a breakfast." Bombur shakes his head, and glances at Bifur before he starts making up what Ráva would think a small feast, though he knows dwarrows are generous in their hospitality. It will take both him and Bifur to carry it all back, and perhaps Bombur beside, and it will certainly feed more than those at Thorin's tent.

Save he had not expected the number of people in the tent to double before his return, and when he sees both princes, and Dwalin, Ráva is glad for the extra food, though he makes certain of Bilbo and Thorin first, before settling into his accustomed place - which had been left open, even with the chaos the tent now appeared to be. It made up for the new additions to the imps prying at the bones of his skull.

"Here." Bilbo hands him a bowl with tea watered down with fresh hot water. Ráva smiles in thanks before downing the brew as quickly as he could manage. Between that and the smell of freshly steeping asëa aranion that is spreading from a bowl set where the pot had been the night before, his thoughts are clear despite the lingering pain.

There is silence while those present are occupied with eating, and Ráva manages to keep his expression all but blank while Fíli and Kíli shoot him glances that are a mix of curiosity and confusion, and perhaps a bit of resentment. Although they stop once they're done eating, and can once more talk without their words being garbled by food - apparently breakfast interrupted their telling of their deeds on the battlefield, and of Akhi and Hjördís, who'd fought at their sides.

"They stood over us when Kíli was wounded." Fíli is pressed close to his brother's side, as if he can't bear to be parted after the reminder that they can be killed. "Hjördís told me to keep pressure on the wound, so Kíli wouldn't bleed out. That it was more important than even killing the orc who'd done it."

It's a sentiment Ráva is almost surprised to hear from a dwarrow, but not a mercenary of those they've been hired to protect. That not one of them had truly expected to be paid for this particular expedition is something that he keeps to himself, knowing Dwalin would recognize just what those words had meant.

Kíli is fingering the hilt of the sword - Night, Hjördís's sword - that's balanced across his knees. "Why were their swords given to us?" He looks up, straight at Ráva, as he speaks, and Ráva gives him a puzzled smile.

"Because they can't protect you themselves any longer." Dwalin answers the question before Ráva can actually say he doesn't know, and Kíli turns, the bed creaking as he does, to face Dwalin. Everyone is watching Dwalin now, and Dwalin has his gaze fixed on Thorin, rather than the princes. "It's part of being a mercenary in the east. No one dies near home, and most of them don't have kin or even student to inherit what they have."

"But why us?" Fíli is leaning forward, though he's still not letting himself lose contact with Kíli.

"They died defending you." Dwalin flicks his gaze to the princes a moment. "The weapons go to those who they last defended, so they may still fight to protect them."

If Ráva weren't watching Thorin, he wouldn't have noticed his gaze flicker to the sword whose hilt is visible over Dwalin's shoulder. It isn't the sort of weapon Ráva has heard of the dwarrow using in battle, but it clearly has some meaning to him, else he would not carry it. Who had died watching his back with that in hand?

"Oh." Kíli looks down at the sword he holds, dark hair hiding any expression on his face from Ráva's sight.

He frowns, reaching back to finger the worn leather of the scabbard of his own sword. Not given from the hands of a dead companion - Ráva doubts he could keep such a thing, even if he were to be in a position to be granted such a thing - but that had much the same purpose in the gifting at those the princes now carry. His thumb catches on familiar runes below the hilt, ones he'd carved into the leather when the new scabbard had been made.

"They'll have carved their marks into the scabbard." He shrugs when they turn to look at him, as if they had forgotten they shared a tent with him at the moment. Ráva doubts they have, but the gift of pretense is one he'll take. "It is a custom I borrowed from friends in the Orocarni, so I would imagine that those who had borne those swords would have done such."

"Along here." Fíli has set his sword onto the bed, where Thorin can see it close, and Ráva can just see it as well. "There are many names on here."

"There would be." Dwalin is looking over the princes' shoulders, studying the scabbard. "Even for a dwarrow, a mercenary life isn't usually a long one."

Thorin is watching Ráva, his focus briefly on the sword hilt visible over Ráva's shoulder - only reasonable, since Ráva had drawn attention to it. He doesn't intend to discuss why he borrowed the Orocarni custom, nor why he had been intent on the blade, not yet. It's not a secret to be shared with everyone, after all.

"Thank you for breakfast, Ráva." It is a spoken acknowledgement of their truce, and Ráva smiles, nodding his head.

"You are most welcome, King Thorin." He glances at the princes and Dwalin before looking back to meet Thorin's gaze. "Would you rather I did not stay this morning?"

"I would rather I did not stay here this morning, but I do not think anyone will allow me to leave this tent."

From the scowls of the princes and Dwalin - and even Bilbo, who Ráva had all but forgotten until he stands from his place leaning against the bed to give Thorin a stern look - Thorin's quite accurate. Ráva doesn't even need to add his own scolding, though he does raise an eyebrow with a hint of a smile on his face.

"I need do nothing but sit here and watch your kin do what I believe I threatened to do yesterday, if you were to be so foolish as to try." Ráva pauses, looking past Thorin at Kíli. "Though perhaps he is not the only one who should not be trying to do terribly much, if the tale of battle is even only mildly embellished."

"Nor should you, I would think." Thorin is giving him an irritated look, and Ráva suspects something is about to come back and bite him. "Has anyone seen to what wounds you had taken in the battle?"

"I have been to the healers' tents." To fetch herbs, and then away as fast as he could, before he said something he might actually regret.

"And not listened to them a whit, I might think. You weren't gone that long, Master Ráva." Bilbo's turned his glare on Ráva now, and Ráva winces at the annoyance there.

"I don't listen very well to fools like her, and anyway, they're nothing I'm not able to take care of myself." Ráva stops abruptly, and thunks his head back against the tent pole. He hadn't - quite - meant to say all of that. "I will remain here, then, and rest, if that will make you stop glaring at me?"

"Perhaps." Bilbo looks over at Kíli, and then at Dwalin. "Mr. Dwalin, if you could help me move the cot closer to Thorin's bed, I think that will do nicely for Kíli. And then I can see if I can't find where a few bedrolls might be, for those of us who aren't as injured."

Closing his eyes, Ráva lets the sounds of movement wash over him, wondering just why he's letting himself be ordered about, or fussed over, when he's not done so since he was a child. It might be almost pleasant, if it weren't in a tent barely off a battlefield.

It might also be more pleasant if he weren't beginning to wonder if he's missing thoughts again to the subtle pounding in his head. Sadistic little imps.

"Does the willowbark do nothing?"

The question makes Ráva open his eyes, a small frown on his face. Had he said that last aloud? He certainly hadn't meant to, and that makes him worry. "It does some, but not as much as I would prefer. It's not a pain that willowbark can cure, but only time, and training or distance. Even the asëa aranion only helps to keep my thoughts clear to a certain extent." He shrugs. "It is not entirely something new to me, though I had never expected to have the cause be a dwarrow-smith."

"Dwarrow?" Bilbo looks puzzled as he looks over at Ráva and Thorin from where he's carrying the bedding from the cot. "The dwarves?"

"Dwarrow or dwarrows, as we have always called them at home, and they have called themselves, to my knowledge. It is what the smith I know calls them, and he's know them far longer than I."

Thorin's expression, when Ráva looks back to him, is thoughtful, and Ráva isn't quite sure what that will mean. The last time, it had ended with Thorin unconscious, and him free to get away for a few hours. And even if this time, Thorin knocks himself out, Ráva has already promised to stay here, and rest, though he isn't terribly concerned for his injuries. No broken bones, no arrows, no deep wounds in places awkward to stitch himself.

"Bilbo, go find Oín. I would have someone make sure Ráva is as well as he claims to be." Thorin's words make Ráva wince, and wish he could divert Bilbo without bringing more suspicion on his head.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Ráva tilts his head back against the tent pole once more, staring up at the ceiling with a sense of impending doom. Four thousand years on Arda, and he's being ordered about and fussed over by dwarrows who haven't achieved even a tenth of that. It's almost embarrassing, and he knows that if his brother or his mother heard about it, he'd earn himself a lecture for doing something foolish enough to need this sort of treatment.

He's drawn out of those thoughts by the tent flap opening, and looks up in time to see a flash of bright blond hair in familiarly intricate braids, and groans. Thumping his head again - because it's not going to do anything for the headache, and at this point, he thinks he needs the reminder that he really should have known there are ways the day could get worse - he sighs, and waits patiently.

"'You should see a healer when you come off the battlefield with an injury, even if you can tend it yourself.' Hmph. I did not think you would be so bad at taking your own advice, Ráva." And there it is, spoken in the familiar common tongue of the east, with an accent of the south. Truly, he should have made good his escape when he'd seen more than Thorin and Bilbo in the tent this morning. "Where, Ráva?"

"They're fine. I've cleaned them, I was by the healers' tents, and I don't need stitches." Ráva meets Síndri's gaze with a stubborn scowl that she merely returns with interest.

"I insist." Thorin is still watching him, and Ráva includes him in the glare for a moment before he lets out a hiss, and relents. There are times when it's good to out-stubborn a dwarrow, but this isn't really one of them.

He shifts, so he can take off his sword harness, and glances down at his feet when they hit something soft. A bedroll is laid out there, and Ráva stares at it a moment, before looking for Bilbo, nodding his thanks to the hobbit. He settles onto it, laying out his sword next to him, and strips off his tunic and the shirt beneath. A bandage is wrapped around his upper arm, and his torso still bears more than a few streaks of blood, not all of which is orc blood.

"You took better care of your sword than yourself, didn't you?" Síndri glares at him, and reaches for the pot of hot water that had been brought in while Ráva hadn't been paying attention, muttering about stubborn, idiot avari. Ráva rolls his eyes, but waits patiently while she, and an older dwarrow that must be the Óin who Thorin had sent for, make sure his wounds are clean, bandaged, and in some cases, stitched.

Once he can put at least his shirt back on, Ráva resists Síndri's pointed glare for a moment before he strips out of his trousers, to reveal the red-spotted bandage he'd wrapped around his calf.

Whatever Síndri says next, Ráva doesn't understand, but is fairly certain is an insult. He scowls, and drops back against the bed roll, waiting as patiently as he can manage for them to finish with that particular wound. He'd not had needle and thread to actually stitch it yesterday, and it hadn't been enough to make him limp, so he hadn't worried about it.

"You're lucky the blade that did that didn't sever a tendon, or leave a poison in the wound that would make it fester." Síndri is now standing next to his head, glaring down at him.

"I did clean it yesterday. And bandaged it, so nothing could get into the wound." Ráva closes his eyes against Síndri's ire, and adds, "I _am_ familiar with treating wounds. They're just not usually my own." Although he's had some over his life - the scars of which he'd hoped not to have seen by those who hadn't seen them before, not right now.

"Hmph." Síndri stomps away, and Ráva can hear the tent flap slap open before her footsteps fade away down toward camp. At least she hadn't asked any particularly awkward questions.

"Well, since you're familiar with wounds, laddie, you should know to rest for a while, and give those a chance to close up."

Ráva opens his eyes at the word laddie, and props himself up on an elbow to stare at the dwarrow whose done the stitching. He opens his mouth, and closes it again without managing more than a strangled sound. Haldasîcil is allowed to call him a youngster, and maybe even his brother, but the dwarrow is a tiny fraction of his age.

"I know very well how to tend to my own wounds, thank you," he finally gets out, though it's not nearly as sharp as he had intended. Rather, it's something more strangled, and it doesn't help that it garners him an amused look from the dwarrow-healer. Ráva lets out another small sound, and drops back to the bedroll, trying to ignore the pounding in his head and the new throbbing in his calf - and arm, and along his side - along with the sense of amusement that pervades the tent around him.

After a long moment, and hearing the tent flap open and shut again, he reaches for his trousers, pulling them back on before he sits back up against the tent pole. Watching as Bilbo fusses about the state of the tent, and Bombur comes in to haul away the pots that are no longer being used. And again later, with lunch enough for everyone and then some.

Really, he's going to be bored before too long, or he's going to want to strangle dwarrows, as his headache gets worse.

* * *

Breakfast the next morning also brings another new dwarrow, introducing himself as Balin before he settles in to eat. Why he's there is a matter left until after the meal, when he tells Thorin they should have a room cleared and cleaned for him to move from the tent into the mountain in another two or three days.

"It's not the royal suite, but it will be better than being out here." Balin wipes the last of the juices off his plate with a scrap of bread, a smile on his face a moment. "And the old bathing pools are accessible, if not yet usable. Young Síndri was complaining that it might be spring before they'll be clean enough for her to wash her hair."

Ráva lets out a chuckle at that, remembering the winter after Síndri's first campaign season. He can see an answering amusement on Dwalin's face, and grins. "I think she spent the first week of that winter in the baths."

"Aye, she did. And the last week before the next campaign season." Dwalin nods, leaning back against the tent pole opposite Ráva. "She'll have the baths clear sooner than spring."

Nodding, Ráva leans his head back, listening to further discussion of the efforts to make the Mountain habitable, and too, the city at its feet. He hopes Síndri does achieve the impossible of restoring the baths swiftly, especially if they're of the same sort as had at Dragon's Reach, with hot water rising from beneath the mountains, and spilling into basins both natural and carved. Cooler water brought down from the heights, so there are baths cool enough for the men of Dragon's Teeth.

Both Ráva and Moriornë have taken advantage of those baths when they've been near Dragon's Reach - better than bathing out of a small pot of hot water with a rag, or in the chill waters of mountain streams. Even at home it's not as good as in the dwarrow-halls.

"Master Ráva?" Balin's polite call draws Ráva out of memories of blissful baths, and he smiles in return. "Should I add rooms for you to what must be cleared, or would you prefer something closer to the surface?"

"I will be comfortable enough in the Mountain, particularly if the winters here are as miserable as those in the northern reaches of the Orocarni." Ráva shrugs. "I have spent a good deal of my life among those mountains, and the dwarrows who dwell there, so sleeping in the safety of stone is no stranger nor hardship to me."

"Best to ask first." Balin nods, and after looking at Thorin for a moment, stands to take his leave. "I've much to do so moving all of you can happen sooner rather than later."

Ráva thinks for a short while that perhaps there will be peace after, but it's not very long at all before Síndri - with a baleful glare in his direction - arrives with an unfamiliar pair of dark-haired dwarrows in tow. She marches over to where Fíli and Kíli are perched on the cot, smiling at them a moment.

"You, I need you to bring that bedroll, and an extra pillow or two." She nods at Fíli, before looking at Kíli, then over at the other two, who are hovering near the tent flap, looking rather nervous. "Well? I didn't bring you along to be decorative. Prince Kíli should not be putting weight on that leg."

"What?" Fíli looks a bit startled, and confused, which Ráva can't blame him for. He's not sure what Síndri is up to, but she's clearly decided that the princes are necessary.

Rolling her eyes, Síndri mutters something about males being impossible creatures, and starts to roll up the bedding Fíli had spent the night on. After, she reaches out to drag Fíli to his feet, and shoves the roll, along with a pair of pillows, into his arms. "You'd think you'd been hit on the head. Carry those, and follow me. You're not staying here today."

Her companions have finally managed to convince themselves to come into the tent, and Ráva smiles a little as they glance nervously at Thorin. It doesn't take them long to swing Kíli up so his arms are across their shoulders, allowing them to all but carry him out of the tent, Síndri in the lead. "Now you learn how to make baths work. _Real_ baths."

A few moments later, Gandalf peers inside, smiling when he sees Ráva. "Master Ráva, if you could spare a few moments of your time - and you, as well, Bilbo, no need to fret over Master Ráva's health. It won't take too terribly long, I'm sure."

Those words make Ráva certain that whatever it is that has Gandalf looking for him will probably take long enough that he'll be better off properly dressed, possibly armored as well as armed. He'll take the sword with him in any case, though the armor... he looks at the neat pile of lacquered leather and steel he barely recalls taking off before collapsing onto the cot the first day.

No. Not the armor. But tunic and sword-harness, yes. He dresses quickly, and after a glance at Thorin, ducks through the door to join Gandalf outside. "What did you wish to speak of, Gandalf? And please, I am Ráva, not Master Ráva."

"Simply some small matter that I thought you might be best suited to speak of with knowledge." Gandalf's gaze flicks to Ráva's sword, then the pavilion, and back. "And perhaps the one most likely to be listened to by the one I would ask you to speak with."

"About what?" Ráva frowns, crossing his arms over his chest as he waits for Gandalf to elaborate on whatever the problem is that he thinks Ráva might fix - something to do with Thorin, and perhaps a sword, but that doesn't really clear the mystery.

"You will see when we arrive. Follow me." Gandalf turns, heading toward the camp, and Ráva scowls, taking long strides to keep up with the annoying being. "Keep up, Mr. Baggins, we don't have all day."

Bilbo is trotting in their wake, and Ráva spares a moment and an apologetic smile for the hobbit.

"Don't worry about me, Ráva, I'll keep up just fine." He waves a hand in dismissal, and Ráva turns his attention back to where they're going, and their surroundings. He nods to Óin as the dwarrow-healer passes them, with Bifur in his wake, both carrying bandages and other items that speak to Ráva of tending to wounds - which, if they go to Thorin, would explain the flurry of Síndri's unexpected arrival that morning, and the timing of Gandalf's desire to have Ráva speak to someone.

"Ah, here we are." Gandalf slows as he approaches a tent that's very like the pavilion Thorin's in, save larger, and with elves to guard the door rather than dwarrows. Ráva frowns, reaching out to pull Gandalf to a halt before they approach closer.

"Who is it that you would have me speak to, and about what, Gandalf?"

"King Thranduil, and as I have said, you will see when we are inside." Gandalf smiles briefly, then starts forward again, speaking briefly with the guards before ushering Ráva and Bilbo into the tent before him.

Inside, there's a dividing canvas hiding the back half from the front, and the scattered detritus of a campaign tent. A table with a map and scattered piece of parchment, an elaborate chair that makes Ráva raise an eyebrow, a stand with a sword that all makes him feel like his skull has been filled with angry bees.

"Gandalf." The less-than-friendly greeting is from an elf who's just stepped from behind the dividing wall, and Ráva studies him a moment. Pale-haired, blue-eyed, and with a fëa that gleams with age. Yet another little niggle to the pain in his head, if not nearly so much as perhaps it would otherwise be.

That gaze flicks to him a moment, and then to Bilbo before Thranduil - he must be Thranduil, or otherwise someone close to him - adds, "And why have you brought the hobbit and the avari here?"

"King Thranduil." Gandalf nods his head as if the greeting had been perfectly polite, and almost ignores the question. "I thought I would speak to you about returning a small trifle which you have borrowed off King Thorin."

"A trifle?" Thranduil seems to easily understand whatever it is that Gandalf is talking about. "An elvish sword does not belong in the hands of a dwarf."

Ah. That would explain why Gandalf had thought he would be the one to speak of things to Thranduil, though why him, Ráva still is uncertain. Unless it's the sword that's making him want to swat at non-existent insects.

"If you're speaking of the one there?" Ráva tilts his head toward the sword on the stand. "I would say it doesn't belong here, unless you're inclined to take your own fingers off trying to wield it. Or are you as blind as any of the rest of your kin, to think you know what is the best for those weapons forged by a smith who wraps fire in steel?"

Thranduil narrows his eyes, studying Ráva in a manner that feels rather like Thranduil is trying to lay bare his secrets - and not particularly liking what he sees. "What does an avari who travels with dwarves know of an elvish blade?"

"More than you, unless you have spent your life in the service of a smith who creates pieces of such power. Of course, if you did, your own blades would sing, and I hear nothing of that." Ráva tilts his chin up slightly, letting his lips curl into a faint smile. "Or perhaps I should say, the only song I hear rides upon my back, and at the sides of Gandalf and Bilbo. Their blades are meant for them, and mine for me, and that one to someone who is very much not you."

"You dare to tell me what to do with a sword from Gondolin?" Thranduil's expression is colder and darker now, and Ráva lets his smile widen in the face of it.

"I shouldn't need to, if you would _listen_ to the sword in question. Or did walking west addle your mind so badly you cannot hear such things?" Ráva pauses, glaring at Thranduil. "And I dare because I feel like a harp-string drawn too tight and plucked. That sword you claim has no business being in the hands of a dwarrow sounds like a kicked-open hive of bees. I am surprised you haven't managed to draw your own blood with it, unless you've had the good sense not to try to even so much as pull it from its sheath."

Thranduil doesn't respond immediately, watching Ráva instead with the same cold expression. Suddenly, he shifts, settling into the ornate chair as if it were a throne. "It does not mean that the sword should be left in the hands of a dwarf."

Ráva shrugs, moving to lean against a tent-pole in much the same fashion he had in Thorin's pavilion. He isn't certain why he's now being the one to tell unhappy truths to kings - before this journey, he'd never paid any particular attention to kings, after all, much less told them what they didn't want to hear - but if he must do this, than he will. In the end, it's perhaps no more difficult than convincing Haldasîcil he needs to rest more than a day, and allow others to take care of him while he recovers.

"Then do not simply send it into Thorin's hands. Take it to him yourself, and if you can listen to it, do so. Even the simplest of things should be easy enough to see. It will bite a hand it does not wish to be held by, after all."

There's a flicker of acknowledgement in Thranduil's expression, and Ráva wonders how deeply he'd been sliced by the sword when he'd tried to draw it. That acknowledgement is swiftly replaced by annoyance and a deep disgust, though, and Ráva is tempted to thump his head against the pole. If this is what thrones and crowns did to dwarrows and elves alike, he's glad for the lack among the avari, and his avoidance of the lords of River's Cradle and Ice River Deeps.

"I will not make a gift of it to one who trespassed in my lands, assaulted my people, and escaped from my dungeons." Thranduil watches Ráva with a speculative expression on his face. "I might be inclined, however, to trade it for certain concessions and reparations. That you may carry to King Thorin."

"And I will not be your messenger, King Thranduil." Ráva crosses his arms over his chest, settling a little more firmly against the tent-pole. "Send your own with that message, or tell it to King Thorin yourself. I came only because Gandalf asked if I would speak of the sword whose ownership appears to be in dispute by all save itself."

"Yet you would be a messenger for King Thorin, to carry his claim on Orcrist to me." Thranduil leans back in his chair, his expression still more speculative than Ráva likes. "You sleep in the same tent, you seek out medicines for his sake. Why?"

"I carried no message from him - I do not know who the sword would belong to, save it does not belong here. I sleep in the same pavilion because he is injured, and it behooves him to have someone near and awake at all times, should he need someone sent for a healer. And the willowbark and asëa aranion were not strictly for him. Bilbo did well for having them there as well."

And himself, but he's not admitting that aloud here.

"Yet why do all of this for a dwarf you had not met before?"

Ráva is quiet for a long moment, watching Thranduil with growing annoyance. Were they all truly so blind to the power that lay in Thorin, and the danger in which it placed him because no one had thought to teach him how to do more than use it?

"Because I will not leave him to be seen and snatched by the same dark masters who stole my kin." His voice is sharper than he intends, and lower in pitch. "I would not be so generous with you and your kin, who have such a callous disregard for the dwarrows whose home is so near your own."

Pushing away from the pole, he heads for the door, glaring at Gandalf when his way is nearly blocked. This had been Gandalf's idea, and Ráva isn't convinced it was a good one - diplomacy has never been Ráva's strong suit. And the matter with Orcrist is something that clearly needs diplomacy, rather than Ráva's blunt speaking and prickly temper, particularly when Ráva feels as if he's pulled too tightly as it is.

The place on the mountain where he'd found quiet before seems the place to go, and he makes his way there, ignoring the curious looks from elves and dwarrows and men equally. Quiet, and a chance to clear his thoughts of the annoyance at Thranduil and Gandalf - and nearly everyone else, for that matter.

Leaning against the rocks once he's made his way up, Ráva tilts his head back, staring up into the pale blue sky. Breathing deeply and slowly as he reaches out to the world around him, letting the quiet grumble of rock and whispers of the scrubby plants that cling to the fire-scorched soil of the mountain soothe him.

* * *

It's past lunch when Ráva makes his way back down, mind quieter even if he's still no more certain of what he's getting himself into than he had been when he'd gone up. He's always left the intrigues and messy politics of royalty to the men of Gaearon Rhûnen, and the dwarrows of the northern Orocarni.

Hesitating a moment near Thorin's pavilion, Ráva draws a deep breath, and shakes his head, passing by it to go down to the kitchen tents. He smiles when Bombur hails him, and comes over. "I am only looking for my own lunch, not enough for all. I have spent rather more time than I intended up the mountain."

Bombur is already gathering up more than enough food to feed Ráva, though not nearly the spread that breakfast had been yesterday. "Rumor is that you told the elf-king off." He sets bread and apples and cheese in front of Ráva, before taking the bench opposite him at the table. "About Thorin's sword. He'll be glad of it."

"All I told him was what needed said - that it wasn't his sword." Ráva tears the loaf of bread in half, offering part of it to Bombur. "As to who it belongs to, I cannot tell unless it were in the hands of the one it would have for itself." He falls quiet as he eats, glad when Bombur doesn't try to fill the silence.

He's finishing one of the apples when Bifur comes into the tent, and heads straight for Ráva once he sees him. His hands are moving too quickly for Ráva to get a sense of what he's trying to say, but Bombur is clearly able to understand him, and smiles.

"You're wanted up at Thorin's tent. Someone's looking for you, and is waiting up there."

Which means returning to the mess he'd stepped into willingly at the end of the battle. Ráva reminds himself that next time he's offered an adventure, he really ought to turn it down, if for no other reason than to keep his peace of mind. Of course, he would be deluding himself if he tried to tell himself he wouldn't go on an adventure if offered.

As they approach the tent, Ráva frowns at the tall figure standing outside the tent. At least it doesn't appear to be Gandalf or Thranduil - not that he'd really expect Thranduil to come looking for him. It is, though, an elf, and when he turns, Ráva can see a resemblance to Thranduil, which would make him kin.

"Master Ráva." The elf nods when he comes into easy conversational distance. "My father sends you a gift, to apologize for his sharp tongue earlier this morning. He hopes you can make use of the herbs, for your sake and that of your friends."

Ráva accepts the leather satchel held out to him, opening it to see what herbs Thranduil might have sent, and raises an eyebrow at the familiar leaves and stems. "I can. My thanks to him, and more so to whoever found the asëa aranion." He pauses, looking up. "Might I know your name, since you already know mine?"

"Legolas." Legolas nods his head again, and Ráva does the same in acknowledgement of the name. "I will convey your thanks to my father, and to the one who collected the athelas."

Ráva will have to remember what they call it here, though he knows that he might never use that name, even if he recalls it. It has been asëa aranion to him for a very long time, after all. He waits until Legolas has left before he goes inside, raising an eyebrow when everyone inside looks at him. "Did I forget to brush crumbs from my tunic?"

Thorin's lips twitch, and Ráva gives him a momentary smile, before he settles onto his bed-roll. The satchel is set aside for the moment - he'll steep some of the asëa aranion after dinner, so everyone can sleep easily tonight.

"Feeling better for a sulk?" Thorin looks amused, despite his words, and Ráva snorts at the description of his storming off and hiding up on the mountain before he did something extremely undiplomatic.

"Not as much better as I would have felt if I'd carried through with what I was thinking of doing, but I suppose it was best I didn't do that." Ráva shrugs, leaning against the pole. "I don't wish to cause you trouble with Thranduil, more than he already seems to have."

That gets him a curious look, and Ráva shakes his head. He's not going to elaborate on that right now, not when he's so recently accepted a tangible apology. Although he expects that Thorin has had many times desired to strike Thranduil, if with something more lethal than a fist.

"You saw Orcrist?" Thorin must know the answer, since Bilbo is sitting against the foot of the bed once more, but perhaps he only just returned and hasn't had a chance to do more than tell Thorin Gandalf had dragged them to talk to Thranduil.

"I did. And I would rather be near an angry adder. It at least would strike and be done with it." Ráva loosens his sword-harness, and slides it off, balancing his sword across his knees. "Whatever Thranduil believes, Orcrist certainly does not belong - nor desires to be - where it is."

There's a nod from Dwalin, leaning against the pole opposite Ráva. "The elf-king should never have taken it, and certainly shouldn't be keeping it from Thorin."

"Politics were never my strong suit, nor is diplomacy." Ráva grimaces. "And that is what it will take to retrieve Orcrist. Although I do not understand how he can be so adamant that the sword cannot possibly belong in the hands of any but an elf, nor why he's so determined to hold that particular weapon hostage for... well, I'm not entirely certain what he wants in return."

"If it is anything other than a fond wish for him to remain in Mirkwood, and to never darken my doorstep again, it will be a long time in coming." Thorin has a stubborn expression on his face, and Ráva isn't entirely certain he can't agree with him. Although if they are close enough neighbors, they need to be on better terms than polite enmity, regardless.

"I am not saying that you ought to give him what he asks, only that it will require more than a temper and a blunt tongue to retrieve it." Ráva leans his head back against the tent pole, looking at the ceiling for a long moment. The system of ropes and poles that held the roof taut were different from anything he's familiar with.

"Perhaps you could give him a gift, in exchange for Orcrist." Bilbo spoke before anyone else could add something to the general tone of annoyance, resentment, and anger. "There's more than gold in the horde, and I'm certain we could find a suitable piece."

There's silence for a long moment, and Ráva looks away from his study of the ceiling to watch Thorin instead. There's still a stubbornness there - he doesn't _want_ to give Thranduil anything - but it's mixed with consideration. "Perhaps. If he will return Orcrist first."

"And if he will not?" Dwalin sounds as if he's expecting Thranduil will refuse to return Orcrist, and Ráva isn't entirely certain he would be wrong.

"Then he receives nothing." Thorin shrugs, and Ráva quirked up one corner of his mouth in a wry smile. It's simple enough, though it will have to be a piece of treasure that piques Thranduil's interest enough to get him to at least pretend to not care that Orcrist will be used by a dwarrow.

"We shall have to make sure it is a gift that he won't wish to lose, then. I can - if you will allow me - look for some things that might be suitable. It'll take quite some time, I think, to work through all that mess, and certainly a long while to return it to enough order to find anything easily." Bilbo is watching Thorin almost anxiously, twisted around slightly so he can better see the expression on Thorin's face.

Ráva isn't quite sure what to make of that expression at the moment, although it's obvious Thorin's feelings on what Bilbo is asking are not simple. Although how much of the complex welter of emotion is dwarrow love of their crafted treasures, and how much of that is a worry for a friend, Ráva doesn't know. Nor what else is bound up in all of that.

"Have Ori help you, and keep track of all of what is found among the gold." As well as how much gold there is present there, or Thorin won't have an accurate accounting of his kingdom's wealth, goes unspoken, which Ráva finds curious. Dwarrow of the Orocarni keep careful track of their wealth, and while he thinks Thorin would do the same, he's not making it the important part of Bilbo's search of the dragon's hoard. There's something here Ráva's missing.

Bilbo smiles, and nods, though the anxiety is still present underneath.

Ráva looks over at Dwalin, noticing some of the same tension in him as in Bilbo, though it certainly doesn't look like anxiety in the dwarrow's face - more like a mix of muted anger and worry, directed at Thorin and Bilbo equally. Whatever Ráva doesn't know, Dwalin does - and Ráva wouldn't be surprised if the entirety of the Thorin's company in the quest to retake Erebor knows. But if anyone else does, that is the curiosity.

* * *

Another morning, and another new person to learn the name of, though Ráva is beginning to think that much of this is deliberate - trying to keep Thorin from overtaxing himself again, which Ráva is quite glad to see. Even though it appears Thorin's managed a shield, Ráva knows exhaustion will diminish it, and then the headaches start again, and Ráva doesn't want another.

Dáin is standing easily near the bed, ignoring everyone other than Thorin, though he had protested once when Thorin hadn't told Ráva to leave while they - and Vorkha, who is quietly conferring with Dwalin at the moment - discussed the further fortification and defense of Erebor.

Once it's clear Dáin is done, Vorkha straightens, nodding to Dwalin first, and then to Thorin. "The rest of the company is set to come up after the spring rains end in the Wild Wood, as the roads won't be passable for wagons until then. There are ninety-six more in the regular company, and sixty or so students and retired that may follow. Of those in the regular company, there are twenty-three men, nine women, fifty-eight dwarrows, and six dwarrow-women. Orvar is the other captain under War-Master Dwalin, Alari is our quarter-mistress, and Gulvár is the keeper of accounts."

Ráva knows Vorkha wouldn't be relaying this if they'd arrived soon enough for him to actually speak to Dwalin before the battle, but in the days since, there's not been time, and so this is the best chance he has to update _Dwalin_ on the state of the company, never mind informing Thorin.

"We've three smiths, two siege-engineers, and fifty-four fighters with at least one campaign season to their names. I've given the roster to War-Master Dwalin, so you'll have full knowledge of the skills and experience of the company. Of the retired, we've a master sapper, the previous quartermaster, and the previous keeper of accounts, with the rest being regular soldiers."

"What of supplies?" Thorin looks little impressed by the numbers in the company, but Ráva is fairly certain that if the entire company, along with their students and retired, comes, so will what families they have, which will number another two or three hundred. And yet still not empty town or mountain.

"A full reckoning of the stores accompanies the roster. We carry all the supplies of an army, save for siege engines, which are the responsibility of our employers on a campaign. We may also bring timber, if there is spare to be had, and fabric from across the mountains."

Ráva hopes Moriornë will also ensure that Ráva's clothing which he could not bring with him is packed onto one of the wagons. The few shirts and tunics he'd carried with him are likely to be too worn to be suitable for anything but everyday by the time the company arrives. If not, he'll have to make new, and that is something he does not look forward to.

"You spoke of regular company, students, and those retired. What of any who are not mercenaries?"

"Dependent civilians, perhaps another two hundred, most of them Men. I expect most of those not directly kin of the company are unlikely to leave Dragon's Teeth."

The flash of annoyance on Thorin's face quickly subsides into amused resignation. As if the thought of more Men to settle on Erebor's doorstep is something he little likes, but can see no recourse to.

Although, with no supplies to build, even the Men will need to come inside the mountain for the winter. Ráva frowns slightly, tapping his fingers lightly against his knee, thinking about the lake they'd skirted on the way here. "What will you do about the Men who already are here? There is nothing here for them to build shelter for the winter, and I saw no sign of any significant settlement which had undamaged buildings enough to house all of them."

Thorin's expression is shuttered swiftly, but not before Ráva catches a momentary flash of pain in his eyes, as if his question has brought up something Thorin doesn't care to think about - or perhaps, remember. "There is room enough in the mountain for them, as well as for us."

Dáin shifts, as if startled, and Ráva smiles at the firm certainty in Thorin's words. Neither, though, has a chance to voice anything before they hear someone outside asking to see Thorin. A nod is all the more Ráva needs to go to open the door flap, letting in a man who looks the worse for wear, though not in the way many of those who fought do.

"King Thorin. I was sent to ask that you grant an audience with Bard of Esgaroth to discuss the refounding of Dale, and other, related matters."

Whatever those related matters were, Thorin clearly knows without their being made explicit, and there's a momentary flash of anger on his face before it's hidden behind a calm mask. "I will speak with him. Tell him he may join us for dinner."

The man nods, and after he's left, there's silence only until they're certain he's out of earshot. At which point, Dáin asks Thorin what he's doing, and why he's letting anyone not dwarrow into the mountain at all, and particularly the one who still keeps the Arkenstone. Though none of the dwarrows explains what the Arkenstone is, and Thorin frowns at Ráva when Dáin brings it up.

Ráva shrugs, and leans his head back to look up at the tent again, closing his eyes as he ignores Dáin - and the low-voiced conversation - until the dwarrow leaves. There's a curiosity about what the Arkenstone is at the back of his mind, other than some treasure that's clearly important, and currently in the hands of Men. In the hands of Bard of Esgaroth, from Dáin's words.

"It is the heart of the mountain." Thorin's words are almost startling in the silence that had fallen after Dáin left, and sound as if they're pulled from him reluctantly. An admission that he finds hard to make, but would rather have Ráva hear from him, rather than from somewhere else.

"I would not have asked." Ráva opens his eyes, looking over to meet Thorin's gaze. "Even though I am curious about nearly everything, I do know when not to ask too closely into something." No matter how much he might want and desire to.

"It is something you would need to know, if you plan to stay." Thorin is watching Ráva with a shuttered expression, and Ráva doesn't respond immediately, but studies Thorin in turn. It will be no hardship to stay, and Thorin is an interesting person - mortal, but that is something Ráva has long been accustomed to. He has always thought that all the more reason to stay close to the interesting ones for as long as they live.

"I think I shall, King Thorin, with your leave." Ráva smiles when Thorin nods, silently granting that permission.

Silence falls on the tent again, and Ráva closes his eyes, breathing deeply of the air that even here holds a reminder that it's chill outside, and winter is slowly closing its grip on the land. Listening to the rustle of canvas in the breeze, the slow breaths of Thorin and of Dwalin, the quiet clinks of metal-on-metal when either dwarrow - or the guards outside - shift.

The peace is broken by Dwalin grumbling that he wants lunch, and going to send one of the guards to fetch something from the kitchen tents. Ráva smiles to himself, barely holding back a chuckle as he opens his eyes.

After lunch, the rest of the afternoon passes quietly, and Ráva goes to get dinner with the assistance of Bifur, and brings back a small pot of water to steep more of the asëa aranion in, hoping the soothing scent of it will keep tempers calm. The food is barely laid out when their guest arrives, Bard settling in the place left open for him, nearest the door, and furthest from Thorin.

Ráva studies him for a long moment, before shrugging, and ostensibly turning his attention to the meal. Still, he listens, because this is something which will be important to remember when all the mortals involved in it are gone.

"I have brought it with me, to return it." Bard's first words aren't quite what Ráva expects, and nor are they what either Thorin or Dwalin expect, from the expressions on their faces. "I would prefer to know that we might rebuild Dale before I do, but I will not - cannot - keep this." He goes to retrieve something from a pouch at his belt, and Thorin holds up a hand to forestall him.

"It is enough, for now, to know you intend to return it." There's a momentary grimace on his face, but it smooths away swiftly. "And in return, I will offer you both shelter for the winter within Erebor, and permission to rebuild Dale. But I would have you wait to return it until it might be done before others."

Bard frowns slightly, his expression more curious than anything else. "Why? I had thought you would want it back as soon as it could be returned."

"I would." Thorin draws a careful breath. "But it would be better for us both if the exchange of gifts is made where all can see."

A piece of diplomacy and politics, then, and Ráva wonders how Thorin plans to play it out, especially with the need for a similar exchange of gifts with Thranduil. All in public, no doubt, since it would be good to have everyone see the first steps toward friendship, or at least alliance.

Silence reigns a long moment, then Bard nods, taking his hand from the pouch which must contain the Arkenstone. "As you ask, King Thorin."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorts that connect to this chapter:
> 
> [Always Together](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1128083) \- during the Battle of Five Armies, the fall of Akhi and Hjördis while saving Fíli and Kíli.


	2. This Splendor Shall Become Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now that he's made a public appearance as King Under the Mountain, Thorin has to cope with still-healing injuries getting in the way of being as irate as he would like to be, treaty-talks which aren't going at all well, and the neglect Fíli and Kíli's educations have suffered in certain areas.
> 
> Then he gets a story out of his kin's distant past dropped in his lap by Ráva - who's a lot closer to those involved in it than he tries to let on. Now, he has bond-kin he hadn't expected, and perhaps isn't as annoying as he'd thought at first meeting.
> 
> Now, if only he could just be allowed to have a _bath_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of this chapter is roughly two weeks after the end of the previous chapter.
> 
> Tílithluin is the creation of [lferion](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lferion), used with her permission and input. Kellen, Kai, Torúlf, and Mathr were given names and rough ages by lferion, and are jointly fleshed out.
> 
> Caefaun are portabella mushrooms, lárahwan are shitake, and fanacorn are puffball mushrooms. Otorno is bond-brother, and from what I can figure of pluralization, bond-brothers would be otornë.
> 
> To “come to contract” is a bit of created mercenary slang for the final reading of a contract before signing, usually after it’s been through the company accountant, and the potential client’s advisers.

The hall which holds Thorin's throne has been cleared of bones, at least, though it still bears scars from the dragon when Thorin asks Ráva to be one of those witness to the exchange of gifts between himself and his new neighbors. Despite the decay and the damage, it's still the grandest dwarrow-hall Ráva has seen, and he smiles appreciatively when he follows Bifur in. All he's seen of Erebor has been in the same fashion - beauty and grandeur wrecked by the dragon.

Bifur points him to one side of the throne, where there are several dwarrows, all of them now familiar. Dwalin and his brother Balin, the healer Óin and his brother Glóin. Vorkha and Úlfr. There are others on the far side, equally as familiar - Bofur and Bombur, Nori, Dori, and Ori. Bifur makes his own way to join them on that side, almost balancing the numbers. Though even with the princes, it still will not quite match, which if there is meant to be such a balance, Dáin will be present - and Ráva would be surprised if he were not, no matter how boring he finds the Lord of the Iron Hills.

Who is not in the hall yet, though nor are Thorin or his nephews, and Ráva suspects they're all coming together - Kíli may be able to stand on his own, but he's still limping. And while Thorin is doing better than Kíli, he still would be best with the company of someone who'll make him stubbornly refuse to look anything less than the king he is, next to them. Kin does that almost as well as an enemy, Ráva has noticed.

"Either you were hiding that tunic, or you're borrowing from our new neighbors, Ráva." Vorkha glances at him, a momentary smile on his face.

"In the bottom of my pack, of course." Ráva shrugs, though the real answer is something of both. He'd had to barter a few stories of home - light things that were easily parted with - for a new shirt, and it doesn't feel quite right, with cut and material alike being different from his own. "Although I do hope Moriornë puts a trunk of my clothing into the wagons that will come up in the spring."

Vorkha chuckles, and shrugs, his attention focusing on where Thorin is finally entering the hall, flanked by the princes and Dáin, and followed by Bilbo with a chest that must hold the gifts for Thranduil and Bard. Thorin moves with a quiet majesty that sparks some of the same protective instincts and respect that having Haldasîcil in the same room does. If without the underlying spark of concern that he's going to be literally stepped on if he gets too much between the smith and his forge.

"Let them in." Thorin's order comes only once he's safely ensconced on his throne, with Fíli and Kíli on chairs flanking him, Bilbo standing at the base of the dais, and Dáin on the far side of the throne from where Ráva had been directed. A nice balance of numbers, though Ráva thinks it amusing that he's been the one essentially chosen to balance Dáin. It says something, he thinks, about Thorin's opinion of the Lord of the Iron Hills.

Or it says something about Ráva's opinion of himself, and he really doesn't care which it might be. Not when there are others to watch, who are infinitely more interesting than Dáin. Thranduil is accompanied by his son and another elda who follows close behind them, though she seems to be ignored almost completely by Thranduil. There are several others behind, but they seem to be more witnesses than anyone who might be part of things - while the elda Thranduil is ignoring is carrying Orcrist.

Bard enters behind them, though for now, Ráva pays him and his companions little attention, in favor of the ceremony being acted out between Thranduil and Thorin, with the elda carrying Orcrist serving as an intermediary. And Bilbo, since neither Thranduil nor Legolas is the one handling the return of Orcrist. Something of calculated insults on both sides without completely undermining the efforts of the ceremony.

"Unto Thorin, King Under the Mountain does King Thranduil of Mirkwood give greeting. In the interest and hope of peace between their kingdoms do I present this gift from his hands to yours, that of the sword called Orcrist. May it serve you well, and bring you victory in the face of your enemies." Her voice doesn't carry as well as that of someone trained to speak in the voice of a king, but she is clear and loud enough to be heard at least by those who flank Thorin.

"My thanks for this gift, that is given in good faith." Thorin nods first to the elda who presented Orcrist, then to Thranduil - another small, calculated insult. Ráva keeps an amused smile from his face by force of will. "In return, may this gift from my vaults serve as a symbol of the good will of my line to the King of Mirkwood."

Bilbo takes a rather lovely piece of silver-and-pearl from the chest that's remained with him since he came in, presenting it rather well himself. Ráva doesn't know that the hobbit is any more familiar with the role of herald than the elda who's being Thranduil's voice.

Thranduil nods, with an expression of cool indifference that Ráva would almost wager is a mask. "You have my thanks, and acceptance of this gift." That neither of the kings made particular promises of anything at all is little surprise, though there is perhaps hope of mutual tolerance in their polite and subtle insults, rather than open animosity.

As Thranduil steps to one side with his small retinue, Ráva's attention is briefly caught by Gandalf among them, and he raises a mental eyebrow at what Gandalf is doing there. Other than meddling, as Ráva suspects is most likely. Whatever else Gandalf is, what Ráva has heard makes him think Gandalf is a masterful manipulator.

"King Thorin." Bard comes forward himself, his companions taking up positions across from Thranduil's retinue. "I come to return what rightfully belongs to you and your kin, and to ask a boon of you, that I and mine may rebuild the city of Dale which lies ruined on your doorstep."

There's a sense of approval in the dwarrows for Bard's willingness to speak for himself, and to admit to the truth of what he does, rather than Thranduil's careful distance and equally careful words.

"This boon I will grant, and further, I invite you and yours to pass the winter in the shelter of Erebor, that none may freeze for lack of shelter when winter falls hardest."

Bard is allowed to approach Thorin himself, to give the Arkenstone directly into Thorin's hands, while Bilbo comes up the stairs with something wrapped in cloth, that he passes to Thorin to be given to Bard.

"In token of these gifts, I give to you this key to one of the vaults of my kin, that you may keep safe here what you will. A symbol that you will always have welcome and shelter in Erebor at need, and our friendship."

Ráva blinks, though he shouldn't be surprised. Bard has proven to be more willing to compromise than Thranduil, and to bury his pride for the sake of acquiring what his people might need. Though, too, his people have greater need for the friendship with Erebor than Mirkwood.

"Thank you." Bard bows his head a moment, taking the key. "We will be glad for that friendship and shelter, and if ever Erebor has need of the assistance of Dale, we will provide all we have to give."

He steps back off the dais, and over to where his companions are, nodding to two of them who stand on either side of a cask that Ráva had missed them bringing in. Turning to Thranduil, as the two men carry the cask across to the elven-king. "King Thranduil. May I present to you a cask of Dorwinion wine, that it may represent the continuing trade and goodwill between our people."

Thranduil smiles briefly, and nods, gesturing two of his entourage forward to take the cask. "My thanks for such a gracious gift, Lord Bard. I too, have a gift for you in similar thought. I hope this bow serves you as well as the one with which you slew Smaug."

This time it's Legolas who presents the gift, both bow and a quiver of elven-made arrows, to Bard, who smiles in appreciation of the gift. "It is a fine gift, and you have my thanks for it."

There are a few more words exchanged that are mostly ceremonial, and a hint of inner flame as Thranduil's voice speaks the last of them. A seal on the promises made, in a manner that seems to dispel the lingering ill-will that niggles at the edge of Ráva's mind. Then, the others leave, for the hall where there will be food and a chance to speak less formally, leaving only those on the dais behind.

"Here, Kíli." Fíli is around the throne and by his brother's side before the door has even fully closed, shoulders under one of Kíli's arms, and one of his arms around Kíli's waist to help him stand, and to hold him up until he's relatively stable. "Lean on me until we're in the other hall; it's not too far."

Thorin is looking somewhat pained, and irritable, but after a moment, he beckons Dwalin over, allowing himself to be helped from the throne - which is a surprise, as Ráva had thought him in better health. He almost goes to step forward and speak, but restrains himself. Thorin might not be as inclined to step on him as Haldasîcil, but Ráva doesn't doubt he'd be annoyed if Ráva showed any sign of thinking Thorin needed help he hasn't asked for.

"We'll be at one of the upper tables, but not the high table." Vorkha speaks as he follows Ráva off the dais in the wake of the rest of the dwarrows. "Can't say I'm not glad for it, with three kings at one table." There is the unspoken sentiment that having too many royals or nobles in one place either goes very well or very poorly for mercenaries, with rarely any middle ground. Especially when said mercenaries aren't left to their own devices in some other room.

"Which will give us the best place to sit." Ráva smiles to himself, wondering where the elda who'd been Thranduil's voice would be seated. He's curious about why she'd been given such an important role when Thranduil didn't seem to like her much. And of course there's the fact that anyone Thranduil, annoying as he is, doesn't like must be someone worth at least speaking to once, if not befriending.

Inside the banquet hall, Ráva is all the more glad to know he's not expected to sit at the high table, where politics are infinitely more important than much else. Thranduil and Legolas on one end, Bard and a rather well-dressed one of his companions at the other. Gandalf and the princes between Thorin and Bard, while Bilbo, Dáin and Balin create a buffer between Thorin and Thranduil.

"Oh, so much better than ever being at the high table," he murmurs to Vorkha before they part ways to tables to either side below the dais, yet still parallel to the high table. There are several other tables, where elves, men, and dwarrows all mix freely - common soldiers, healers, and the people of Dale and Esgorath. Already more friendly than their own leaders, which is a hopeful sign for what will come.

He's directed to a seat between the elda who had caught his attention, and a dwarrow from the Iron Hills he'll be glad to ignore - and leave to the conversation of Bifur, if the other dwarrow intends to speak at all. A glance at other tables makes him wonder who had most annoyed those in charge of the feast, since there are several of those not at the high table who look distinctly uncertain about their dining companions.

Shaking his head, Ráva suppresses a chuckle - if not his grin - as he settles into his seat, and turns slightly so he's facing the elda more than the dwarrow. She's not particularly stunning, like some of those in Thranduil's entourage, but Ráva rather likes her subtler beauty. Although, as all the elves he's met, she's pale as if she's not seen enough sun in her life.

"I am Ráva," he says when she glances at him, giving her an encouraging smile. She seems to be more interested in the hall itself than any particular person, though Ráva can grant the architecture is as intricate and lovely as the great hall that the throne room is.

There is a hint of a twinkle - or is it a dare? - in her eye as she answers, "Tílithluin, at your service."

It's more a dwarrow's sort of greeting, and it makes Ráva's smile widen. No wonder, if she's enough interest in dwarrows to use their greetings naturally, she annoys Thranduil. Ráva flicks a glance up toward the high table, amused when he sees the faint frown on Thranduil's face at their interaction.

"I do not think I need ask what makes the elven-king do his best to ignore your existence, and I shall freely admit, it does make you more interesting to me." He shrugs, though he hopes it doesn't offend her too badly that his curiosity begins with the dislike Thranduil shows.

It's definitely a twinkle now, as she replies, "His Majesty has never approved of me. I take no offense in the least."

"Excellent." Ráva grins, chuckling. "He needs to be reminded that elves are not the center of all that is good about Arda. Though I suppose he won't take too well to that." After all, Thranduil hadn't sounded very approving of the idea that Ráva willingly associates with dwarrows. As if it were something that were beneath Ráva, in Thranduil's estimation of the world.

Or perhaps it's his choice to remain as close to Thorin as Thorin will allow. Either way, it doesn't truly matter, save that Thranduil has an unreasonable dislike of dwarrows, to Ráva's mind.

"Indeed, all the Speaking Peoples add to the Song. You are quite correct that he takes that idea ill. Though he likes the works of the Naugrim silver-and-gem smiths well enough, as you no doubt saw. And is perfectly willing to take advantage of their stone-craft as well."

Ráva tilts his head, though he doesn't respond immediately, as there are servers coming out with platters of food to be set at each table. He does notice her turning to look at the high table - and follows her gaze, unsurprised to see Thranduil's utterly ignoring them.

"How come you to be acquainted with the Naugrim? If you would care to say."

Her question makes him smile a moment. "My home, in which I grew up, is near to the eastern gates of River's Cradle, which is one of the three great dwarrow halls of the Orocarni. I have been friends with them since I was old enough to travel from home. They, and the hlónaner, have been close allies of ours since I can recall, though the hlónaner have grown apart from the friendship our people once shared."

Pausing, he reaches to serve himself from the platter that's been set in front of them. "I have not heard the word naugrim before, though perhaps it is because I have always known them as dwarrow."

Her brow furrows for a moment, and Ráva takes a bite of food to keep back his own curiosity while she thinks on his question that isn't really quite that. Around them, he can see little offense in the faces of the dwarrows for her own word for them - a word that no doubt comes from the same language which twisted asëa aranion to athelas. Although her answer, when it comes, is no more direct than his question, seeming more a story than ought else.

"The road through the Woodland Realm that was once well-traveled by traders of all sorts is called the _Men i Naugrim_ , the Dwarf-Road, because they laid and cut the stones that mark much of it. It was a joint effort, though there are those who choose not to recall that it was Silvan elves who coaxed the trees from the pathway. Perhaps, too, because of the stray Noldo among them. It is the word used most commonly in the annals and the lists."

She frowns, the furrow once more on her brow. "It is perhaps not the best word, for all it is common. The root of it is _naug_ or 'short', though some use it to mean squat or meager. I suppose they are short, in inches, but not by any other measure."

With that, Ráva can well agree, though he doesn't voice it yet, as he's not quite certain Tílithluin is finished with her explanation.

"Hadhod, or Hadhodrim would be a better word, as a people."

"Perhaps." Ráva shrugs, taking another bite of food, and waiting until he's finished it before he adds, "I shall, though, admit I wouldn't care to call them ought but dwarrow - dwarrows, as a people - as it is what they had always called themselves at home."

He nods to the food. "You should eat, share in their hospitality. I do not know if it is greatly different here, but the dwarrows of the Orocarni would be offended if you did not take at least some food they've laid out for their guests."

The pink that creeps up Tílithluin's ears makes Ráva hide a smile. "N-no, there is difference in that here." There seems to be something more behind the words, and the momentary shift of her shoulders, though she doesn't hunch or bend. It's a curiosity, but one that is definitely not one to pry at here. "Thank you. I do tend to rattle on a bit."

"Ah, but there is nothing wrong with doing so - you show a passion for what you enjoy, and to not have that is not to live." Ráva watches a moment as she picks out different dishes, many of which he's familiar with. He suspects Geirr has accosted the cooks with recipes from home in a desire for something familiar, even if he had to sacrifice his precious collection of spices to make it happen. "Try that one. It's a dish that the dwarrows of Dragon's Reach learned from the men of Dragon's Teeth. Although if you are unused to the spices of the east, it may taste more of fire than ought else."

Her smile at his words makes her prettier, and Ráva is glad to see it.

"I shall have to try it then." Her voice drops, and he doesn't think she's quite aware she's speaking aloud as she adds, "If only because Aunt Ivoriel would Strongly Disapprove."

Ráva suppresses a chuckle, taking a good portion of what the Men of Dragon's Teeth had called curry when he'd asked long ago, and the saffron rice that went with it. He rather enjoys it, himself, and if this is the last chance until spring to have it, he'll take what he can of it. Watching Tílithluin out of the corner of his eye, he smiles a bit when her eyes widen, brighter with the tears the fire brings up in those who've not experienced the spices used. The delight on her face after is better, and Ráva makes a mental note to send a letter to Moriornë to make sure there's a chest of good spices along with his chest of clothes on the wagons. He's sure there will be others who will appreciate the chance to have tastes of home even here in the strange west.

"What do you call that?" Tílithluin asks after taking a sip of the mint-water, though she doesn't give him a chance to answer before she's reaching for another dish, taking one of the mushrooms on it. "These are one of my favorites."

Ráva serves himself one of the mushrooms, taking a taste of it before he cuts a larger bite. It's not familiar, but it's tasty, and one he might have to send the recipe home for, if he can get it. His mother will enjoy having something new to try. "The Men of Dragon's Teeth call it curry, and the rice is saffron rice."

He doesn't mention that it's something eaten more days than not, though he suspects a good number of the dishes are. It would make sense, especially when trying to make a banquet from supplies already running thin.

"The particular version is one that Geirr makes when he has a chance. He's not as generous with the pepper or the ginger as some cooks are, though he's not stingy. It's a dish that's really more about the cooking process and the spice balance than the precise spices or other ingredients put into it, as I understand it." Ráva takes another bite of the mushroom, savoring it before he asks, "What is in this dish? I'm not familiar with either the mushroom or the spicing."

"We call the mushroom _caefaun_  or ground-cloud. These were baked with basil and rosemary, with some well-aged cheese, but like your curry, different herbs and cheeses work too," she answers after a moment, though she looks slightly puzzled. Perhaps over Ráva's curiosity as to the mushroom, or the spice.

"Hmm." Ráva wonders what the caefaun would taste like if used in a curry, or perhaps in a soup with some ginger and onion, like his mother has made with lárahwan and fanacorn. "It's not something I think grows in the Orocarni, though we've mushrooms plenty. I do not think any grow so large, save perhaps the fanacorn - and when they're large, they're no longer edible."

He will have to introduce the soup, especially if there is any of the ginger left among Geirr's spices. And perhaps, if they're unfamiliar with the mushrooms he knows, ask if they can send some of those, as well. He misses his mother's soup.

"These are very common in the West. At one time there were well-regarded mushroom farms here at Erebor, with the products traded as far as the traders cared to go. I hope the dragon did not damage them too badly, because the sooner they can be gotten going again, the easier it will be to feed people." Tílithluin looks a bit defiant, as if her words contain something she's not meant to be saying, though Ráva suspects the only ones who would say so are those at the high table, which means little to him.

"They'll have them going again soon enough." Bofur is apparently on the far side of Bifur, and grins across him at Ráva and Tílithluin. "Bjarkha and Mr. Bilbo have been working on them ever since they figured out what the first one was. Apparently she's used to mushrooms all winter before she got a chance to leave home."

Ráva nods, smiling at Bofur a moment before he glances at Tílithluin again. There's a wistful expression on her face, and he wonders what occupies her thoughts. After a moment, he smiles to himself. No reason not to ask. He opens his mouth to speak, and she speaks before he can get a word out.

"How do you manage? Living with Dwarrow? Does your king not object?" She hesitates a little over 'dwarrow', and there's an expression on her face that Ráva can't really read - too many fleeting emotions to name.

"I have no king. The avari live as their family eldest chose, and some few of us wander. I prefer to wander from home, where my mother, her otornë, and my father live. My brother, too, wanders." Ráva shrugs, fiddling with his food. "It is how it has been since the oldest among us fled over the Orocarni, and took shelter along the Hîthduin. The more scattered we were, the fewer the Masters of the Darkness could take."

It's not really a conversation for the dinner table, and Ráva wonders for a moment why his thoughts have turned to that Darkness, and the fear of it he has always had. The fear of losing all he holds dear to a grasping, greedy shadow made tangible.

"A toast!" The bright voice of Bilbo cuts across the darker thoughts, and Ráva turns in his seat to look at the hobbit, curious what he intends. Bilbo waits for the hall to quiet some, though there are still murmurs of conversation in the lower tables. "To peace and friendship among three great people, begun here with Thorin, King Under the Mountain, King Thranduil of Mirkwood, and Lord Bard of Dale." Bilbo smiles, raising his glass for the toast.

It's enough to lighten the mood, until Ráva glances at Thorin next to Bilbo, and winces slightly at the ache that begins behind his eyes. There's almost a rainbow around Thorin, as if his shielding is thinning under the weight of the stress of the day added to the strain of his healing body.

He barely registers the desserts being brought out, and only sees the the great soteltie with its twined symbols because it's set on the high table in front of Thorin. After a long moment, Ráva forces himself to turn back to his own plate, though he cannot stop himself from paying close attention to the sense of Thorin's flame - shimmering oddly and half-shielded - at the edges of his mind. Dessert tastes like so much ash, though he can spot some of the candied grapes that he's inordinately fond of at most times.

When he spots movement out of the corner of his eye, he looks up again, watching as Kíli is helped from his chair by Fíli, the two princes smiling as if there's nothing more to their leaving than Kíli being tired, and needing to rest his leg. Which Ráva thinks is true, but it also gives Thorin an excuse to leave as well. Ráva sets his spoon aside, and murmurs an apology he doesn't really mean to Tílithluin and to the dwarrow on his other side, pushing away from the table to head for the door.

He can see Dwalin rising from the other table, and Balin and Bilbo following Thorin from the high table. If anyone is paying attention, they'll either think something more wrong with Thorin than expected, or that those who'd been closest to him when he first came off the battlefield more worried about him than perhaps is strictly necessary. Ráva hopes it's the latter, but he doesn't much care which, so long as Thorin isn't about to collapse again.

Ráva allows Dwalin out before him, and is glad for it, when Dwalin moves to help Balin support Thorin when Thorin's knees buckle for a moment. Annoyance swirls up in Ráva's mind, accompaniment to the building headache from Thorin's frayed shielding, though he keeps himself silent until they're all out of the corridors, and in the rooms that had been cleaned for Thorin's use.

"What were you thinking?" Ráva would rather ask Thorin _if_ he were thinking, but at the moment, that doesn't seem particularly prudent - it would likely have come out sharper than even the question Ráva did ask.

"That we have nearly nine hundred people to keep sheltered and fed this winter, and now we have the means to do so." Thorin's breath catches as he tries to take too deep a one, and a wince crosses his face. More than Ráva is expecting, but he suspects less than what Thorin might be willing to admit if Ráva weren't there.

"I hope not too greatly at your expense." Ráva crosses his arms, leaning against the wall as he watches Thorin. Dwalin and Balin are already helping him to remove ceremonial armor and heavy, embroidered tunics that are the formal garb of a dwarrow, so he can return to his bed. He moves with too much care - and too little upset at Bilbo's fussing with pillows and coverlet - for him to be in less pain than he'd been days ago. "Must I find some way of keeping you in your bed, so you don't make your injuries worse again?"

"No." Thorin gives him a look more tired than annoyed, and Ráva straightens, worried. "I asked Óin to be sure there was something waiting after, to allow me to sleep through the worst of the pain."

That he would do so speaks to either knowledge of how much this was likely to cost him, or a wish to avoid argument over that cost. Either way, Ráva merely gives him a narrow-eyed look before looking over to where Balin is fixing a cup of something almost syrupy.

"What was left for King Thorin?"

"A concoction the elvish healers had shown him, that they'd used on some of the worst wounded after the battle." Dwalin is watching the preparation as well, and then watching Thorin as if to be sure he finishes it. "Poppy syrup and some other herbs, to help dull pain and induce sleep."

"Hmm." Ráva slumps back against the wall once more, waiting until Thorin seems to have settled into sleep before he moves again. At least the shield isn't fraying further, and that's a relief. "I'll return in the morning - none of us wish me to remain and start complaining about sadistic smiths once more."

Dwalin chuckles, nodding, and Ráva leaves before his headache can grow. His own rooms are just a short way down the same corridor as Thorin's, but he avoids them in favor of making his way toward upper passages, where work has yet to begin on clearing the debris. Carefully setting his feet as he makes his way to a small space he's found where he can simply listen to the sounds of the mountain. Growing things are a faint whisper when they're heard at all, but the rocks grumble and mutter, and whisper of a fondness for the return of the dwarrows to the mountain.

* * *

A tap on his shoulder draws Ráva back to the outside world, and he smiles a moment when Bifur gives him an unimpressed look before handing him a plate with a simple breakfast.

"Bilbo insisting someone finds me and makes sure I eat this morning?" Ráva shifts, leaning back against a rock before beginning to pick over his breakfast. The hobbit is good about making sure all of them are fed, even if he does send others to feed some of them - usually Bifur to find Ráva, ever since they'd moved Thorin into the mountain. No one's told him just why, though Ráva suspects one of the dwarrows he's traveled with had cornered Bilbo with some tale of Ráva being quite grumpy when interrupted in the midst of listening to the world around him.

Bifur shrugs, which is as good as a yes, and settles nearby, taking a loaf of bread and an apple out of his coat for his own breakfast. It's a welcome peace as they eat, while still reminding Ráva he has to check on Thorin after last night's escapade, even if Ráva hopes Thorin is still sleeping off the draught.

When finished, Ráva goes to hand the plate back to Bifur, who shakes his head, and beckons Ráva to follow him instead. It's not to show Ráva where the kitchen is, because Ráva's already familiar with that, though where Bifur is leading him, he's uncertain. Until he sees Vorkha and Hrafn near the gate that's one of many current projects to make the mountain defensible once more.

"Ah, Ráva. I see someone found you." Vorkha gives him a brief smile, before speaking to Bifur, likely a thanks in the language of the dwarrows. Ráva knows he should know at least some of it by now, but he's never really caught it. "With a good pony, Hrafn should be able to reach Dragon's Teeth before the wagons leave. Did you have any letters to send back?"

"Not that is written and ready, nor any that cannot wait. Although, if a message can be passed to my brother that a chest of spices - the ones mother uses in her cooking - could be included, that would be appreciated."

Vorkha chuckles, while Hrafn mutters under his breath, fixing the message in his memory. There are enough messages that are passed by such means that there's always someone among a group who can pass messages verbatim.

"Planning on introducing the west to avari cooking, then?"

Ráva shrugs, returning Vorkha's smile. "Perhaps, some. The flavors here aren't the same, and I miss the familiarity."

"As do we all." Vorkha nods. "So long as Síndri doesn't decide she wants something from home, and tries to kill us all."

Ráva laughs, drawing attention to them more than the curious glances that had been sent their way. "The spices for that come even further than our own, so I would say unless there are messages heading south now, Erebor is safe from that particular fire."

"There should be, though, if anyone from those halls are to be at a formal coronation. And I can't imagine there won't be such." Vorkha sighs, a momentary look of worry on his face. "Though I can't imagine any of those princes stirring from their halls for anything less than a dragon. Save perhaps Prince Vahan, and he's his hands full with the Haradrim."

And yet, they'd be offended to find out they hadn't been invited, so it's probable messages are already going south, though more likely carried by ravens than by anyone traveling over land. It's too far a trip to expect anyone from there to arrive for anything sooner than a coronation on Durin's Day without the use of birds to carry the messages.

"There is that." Ráva tilts his head in acknowledgement of Vorkha's words, and waits for a long moment as Hrafn leads his pony out of the mountain before he turns away, raising an eyebrow at Bifur still waiting for him. "Have I another appointment, then?"

Bifur nods, a grin flashing across his face a moment before he heads back into the mountain, taking the plate when pausing at the junction of the corridor they're in with the one that leads to Thorin's rooms. Which leaves Ráva to go where he'd been intending before being detoured to Vorkha.

"There you are." Bilbo is waiting in Thorin's rooms, though not in the bedroom itself. "You were supposed to be here sooner."

"Vorkha needed to be sure I had no letters to send home before Hrafn left. Why was I supposed to be here sooner? Is Thorin awake again?"

"Not yet, but soon, I hope." Bilbo glances back at the arch that leads into the bedroom, and then back at Ráva. "You've eaten breakfast?"

"Yes." Ráva wonders what Bilbo is asking for, since he's sure the hobbit sent the meal up with Bifur. "Is there something you need me to do?" There are any number of things that he can help with, he's certain, but what Bilbo wants his help with is a different question. Bilbo's been more in Thorin's company of late than nearly anyone else save Balin, and Ráva suspects that between them, they've been making sure Thorin only has to deal with the important things that can't be delegated to underlings.

"To make sure he's not done any worse to exhaust himself than we'd thought he would with the ceremony and banquet. Thranduil and Bard aren't supposed to come to properly begin to hammer out this treaty until tomorrow, but I - we - need to be sure Thorin isn't going to fall over in the middle of it."

Ráva smiles at the quiet fussiness of Bilbo's words, even if he does manage to sound perfectly reasonable. If, of course, one isn't a stubborn dwarrow, though Thorin seems to find the fussiness less than annoying - amusing, perhaps, or endearing, Ráva isn't quite sure.

"Oh, I think I should be able to tell without much stepping into the room." Ráva herds Bilbo in front of him into the bedroom, choosing to lean against the arch once he's there, watching Thorin. "At least you don't look like someone decided to roll you in diamonds and set you in the sun this morning." The rainbows from last night, when Thorin's shielding had begun to fray, are gone.

Ráva pauses, and blinks. The rainbows should have still been there, if Thorin has only slept the night through, which means once more, Ráva is missing time - and cannot blame it on exhaustion this time. He tilts his head back to give the ceiling a shrewd look. "I know I didn't intend to spend all day yesterday listening to the rocks."

Thorin snorts, and Ráva catches the amused expression as he looks back at Thorin. Without opening his eyes, Thorin says, "'Rest well within the Mountain's song, the voice of stone, the voice of home.' You should listen to them more often."

Beyond Thorin, Ráva can see Bilbo, and the smug expression on his face. He'd been aware of how long Ráva had been unaware of his surroundings, then. Possibly why he sent Bifur with breakfast - both to make sure Ráva ate, and to not be the first one in Ráva's line of sight if he figured out how long he'd been listening to the rocks immediately.

"Or perhaps I should be prodded awake sooner. If, of course, the mountain would have allowed me to be roused, I suppose." Ráva shakes his head, before shrugging. "Little enough to be done now, save to get back to actually working on what needs done."

"Yes." Thorin opens his eyes, watching Ráva for a long moment. "What did you think of the elf who Thranduil used as his herald?"

"Tílithluin?" Ráva leans his head back against the stone of the arch. "The choice wasn't a favor granted, nor an honor, in Thranduil's eyes, but she found it to be one regardless, I think. She asked questions about dwarrows, though not with any intent to insult any around her." He closes his eyes, turning over the memories of the banquet and the conversation. "I think she noticed when you were drawing more on the flame, and hiding it less."

"She won't be Thranduil's first choice for an envoy, then." Balin is sitting to one side, next to the table which holds all the parchment that is the backbone of his work. Lists, notes, the beginnings of what will be a treaty between three realms.

"Not likely, no." Ráva shrugs, opening his eyes to study the ceiling. "I suspect she doesn't have all the skills for that position, either, but she has something that I do not think any of the other elda Thranduil might recommend will have." He looks over at Thorin once more, meeting Thorin's gaze steadily. "Though perhaps not the training to do more than see, she still has some of the same gift I do."

"She came to ask me if I knew someone who'd be able to put her hair up in braids suitable for the ceremony, a few days before," Bilbo offers, stepping away from whatever he's been fussing over this time. "Dori and Síndri worked out the braids."

Ráva raises an eyebrow, knowing the intricacy of the braids on both the dwarrows in question. It does explain the complexity of what had been done with her hair, though at the time, he'd mostly thought it rather pretty. "She'd introduced herself using the dwarrow form, which is something I don't usually hear from others, even those who live in close company with dwarrows."

Thorin nods, his expression thoughtful now. "She would make a good envoy, then. Regardless of who Thranduil might have in mind."

Which means that Thranduil is going to be annoyed with who his envoy to Erebor is, and that makes Ráva smile. He doesn't enjoy politics, but he's coming to enjoy watching the annoyed expressions he - or others - cause on the faces of those who do. Particularly those who, like Thranduil, he finds annoying at best.

Balin looks as if he's going to object, at least until Thorin gives him a look Ráva can't interpret, but it makes Balin sigh, and make a note. "If she's who you'd rather they send, then we'll find a way to make that occur." Balin is the sort to play the delicate game of politics and diplomacy, better than most of the rest of them, and it's he who'll have the worst headaches when Thorin refuses to play the game.

The meeting he's been dragged into goes from there into the supplies that will be needed to keep the entire population of the mountain from starving over the winter, or freezing, though the latter is less of a worry. It might be cold, but inside, it's unlikely to ever truly be freezing, especially in the depths of the mountain. The numbers are something Ráva has not had much interest in, though he politely doesn't wander away or make it too obvious he's more interested in the details of the carvings of the walls than those of the conversation.

* * *

Anywhere is better than being in the same room - or perhaps, even the same mountain - as arguing kings. Particularly Thorin and Thranduil, even though Ráva's very certain which side of their arguments he'd take up, if he were at all interested in politics. Right now, he'd rather let Síndri make him help clean out the piping system from the cold-water cisterns to the baths, if he'd had to chose between that and listening to Thranduil snipe and Thorin growl.

Taking a chance at removing his attention from the ceiling, Ráva tries his best to avoid meeting Balin or Thorin's gaze, looking instead for someone - anyone - who's not trying to pretend they're getting something done. Which as far as he can tell, they aren't, save to annoy everyone in the vicinity, and put Thorin into a bad mood. Probably Thranduil into a bad mood as well, but Ráva almost thinks he deserves that much.

After a moment of futile searching, Ráva sighs, and closes his eyes a moment. Hauling up the memory of the last time he'd had to argue with Haldasîcil about staying in bed, and putting all the same frustration and tired fury at having to make the same argument again and again into his voice.

"Shut. Up. You. _Idiots_!" It has the unpleasant side-effect of having two irate and insulted glares turning on him, but at least the noise has stopped, and Ráva smiles cheerfully in the face of impending doom. He really is far too fond of thunderstorms for his own health.

"Ah, my lords. Your Majesties." Balin is managing a far more polite and less toothy smile as Thranduil and Thorin turn their attention to where he, Bard, and Legolas have been sitting around the table full of parchment. "I think we can agree that a treaty-agreement should be reached, and that the bones of it as laid out in this outline are an acceptable place to start?"

Thranduil lets out an irritable huff, standing up from the chair he's been occupying since this morning. "I still object to the third point, but in the main, yes. Legolas, I leave it in your hands. Lord Sûlclaur will advise, knowing well my mind on these matters." He doesn't leave any chance for a reply before he sweeps out of the room, most of his entourage trailing in his wake.

Ráva doesn't let himself relax yet, not when he's still in the same room as Thorin, despite the fact that Thorin looks more tired than angry. He watches Thorin for a sign that he can make his escape - he'll have to go around Thorin to do so, no doubt a deliberate move on Balin's part, since left to his own devices, Ráva would have stayed near the door.

"Go." Thorin looks away, letting Ráva escape around him, though Ráva doesn't let himself think for long that he's actually safe from later anger. Only that right now, Thorin either doesn't have the energy to be angry at him, or he's too aware of what it might look like to take the time to yell at Ráva now.

Once he's several feet down the hallway, Ráva stops, leaning against the wall, and tilting his head back against the cool stone. He shouldn't have let Bilbo talk him into being in that room this morning, no matter how many times he said it would help Thorin to have him there. Or that it would make everyone happier if someone could tell when Thorin should stop, even if Thorin didn't care to.

The sound of other footsteps makes him look up, seeing the others filing out, and scattering. It's a moment before he spots anyone he might actually want to talk to coming out, and he raises a hand to catch Tílithluin's attention.

After the day's various doings - and while he might not have understood all of what Thranduil said, the tone had been enough - he's little surprised she looks as if she's come out the far side of a battle. If with a good deal less blood lost, for all the emotional blows. He summons up as reassuring a smile as he can manage, and waits until she's closer before he speaks.

"I had begun to think it would be better to have been recruited to help Síndri with the baths, toward the end in there. Would you care to join me in seeing if she won't mind a couple extra pairs of hands? I doubt anyone will actually look for us there."

Tílithluin blinks, looking a little less lost, and the line of her shoulders eases. "Síndri's new project? The baths the children found?" Her voice is soft, but there's clear interest underlying the questions, and Ráva smiles in response. There's the curious elda from dinner. "I would like that. Yes."

She pauses, to look back down the corridor, and Ráva follows her gaze to where Legolas is talking to the boring lord that Thranduil had appointed an adviser before leaving. There's a moment before Legolas waves a hand at her in a manner that's easy enough to read as dismissal - if a gentle one, from the expression on his face.

"Yes. Let's," Tílithluin says more firmly, lifting her chin, and starting down the hall toward the baths.

They can hear Síndri before they get close to the baths, yelling at someone to stop trying to help and just _sit down_. Ráva chuckles, wondering who'd managed to do something wrong, and get themselves banished from the crew, albeit not too far.

"And if you get up again, I'll tell Mr. Dori to pass along your interest in joining your uncle and your brother in negotiating with the elven-king and Lord Bard." Síndri's voice is entirely too sweet, and Ráva winces a little. He hadn't noticed Fíli in the room earlier, though that could easily have been because he'd been trying to ignore everything except Thorin since he had been directed to the far side of the room from the only real door.

"Yes, Miss Síndri." That's definitely Kíli's voice, so the younger prince had managed to escape the torture that was politics, at least for now. Ráva had no doubt Síndri would gleefully carry through on her threat if she needed to.

Síndri snorts, and after a moment, Ráva draws a deep breath, ducking through a doorway into a cavern whose walls had been left in a nearly natural state, save where piping came in with cold and hot water, and where a number of small holes had been cut in ranks. There's grime most everywhere, but he can see where they've begun to clean out the baths, and there's a hint of what must have been richly colored tiles when the baths were in use.

"Would you object to the use of more hands, Síndri? That do not need to keep out of the muck for their health?" Ráva glances over to where Kíli is sinking back down onto a chair Ráva recognizes as usually gracing Vorkha's tent.

Turning from where she'd been crouched next to the wide mouths of the cold water pipes, Síndri gives him an irritated glare. "If you are free to do so, you can help the boys shoveling the debris and muck out of the basins." She looks past him to Tílithluin, and grins. "You, however, are skinny enough you might be able to help Kellen." She gestures to the pipes - large enough, really, to fit even a dwarf, if one young and slender. "The valves on the cisterns are closed, so if the clogs are dislodged, you won't be half-drowned by ice-melt. But I think these were abandoned because they didn't have anyone to clean the water-works."

"I will be delighted," Tílithluin says, while Ráva has his head muffled in his shirt, his tunic already tucked into a cubby, and he smiles to himself as he tosses the shirt in on top of the tunic. "The clogs cannot be more recalcitrant than certain... persons."

Ráva watches a moment as she vanishes up the one pipe, before he winces away from Síndri's glare, and shucks boots and trews to add them to his own clothing. The others are equally as undressed, save Kíli, and Ráva accepts a shovel and bucket from one of the two dwarrows - he doesn't know their names, and he'll have to introduce himself properly later - before heading toward the basin which looks untouched as yet.

He's piled one shovel into the waiting bucket when Fíli darts into the room, quickly stepping to one side, as if trying to keep from being seen. Síndri just snorts, and points at the buckets that are lining up near the baths.

"Take those, and empty them in the barrow waiting to go up. After you take off the finery. I'll not give you _that_ excuse to escape being a prince."

Ráva's gotten into a rhythm with the shoveling of the debris when there's a sound of running water, and a shriek of laughter from one of the pipes. He turns in time to see Tílithluin come sliding out, dropping in a puddle of mud in the one basin. Her laughter is infectious, and he leans against his shovel, grinning at her as he tries to get his chuckles - he'll never call them giggles, though perhaps his brother would - under control.

The rest of them are likewise paused in their work, the atmosphere of camaraderie between them all a deep contrast to the animosity there had been in the meeting. Even Síndri is laughing, though she's trying to look severe at their pause in cleaning.

"One down, and another for you - two, if Kellen is having trouble with his." Síndri glances over to where the younger of the boys is sitting against the wall, and he shrugs.

"I think something built a nest in there, and I can't get it free. It'd be easier to jump on it from above." Kellen pouts, before he grins again, unable to stay upset for any longer than the rest of them. "I can help Fíli carry buckets, if Miss wants to clear all the pipes?" He looks over at Tílithluin, an almost hopeful smile on his face.

Tílithluin has gone so far as to plane the mud off her face with her hands, still giggling. "Why not?" she says, looking down at all the muck and grinning at the boy nearly as muddy as she, "I seem to be good at it, and I'm hardly likely to get any dirtier."

Ráva's grin widens as he begins to shovel muck again, keeping several quips he could think of behind his teeth, as not to puncture the more cheerful mood of the room. They could all do with a bit more of this, and a bit less of the poisonous sort of feelings that had driven him to shout at kings. He wonders for a moment if he could find a way to get Thranduil down to help with this sort of thing before dismissing it as something beyond his skill with the stubborn.

He isn't one to work the impossible, after all. Just the highly improbable.

The rest of the afternoon passes more enjoyably than the morning, and when Síndri calls a rest, they've even got the basin closest to the cold water taps cleaned out enough to fill with water enough for everyone to get clean. It's a far cry from what the baths will be when they're done, but it's an excellent beginning, and Ráva slides into the water gladly, ducking his head under the water to rinse sweat and grime from his hair.

When he comes up, most of the others have stripped off what little they'd still worn, and are copying his example, though Kíli is mostly watching the water with a bit of a wistful expression. He can't have had a chance to bathe much since the battle, with the gash on his leg.

Ráva raises an eyebrow when Kíli looks up enough to catch his gaze, silent question about why he's not joining them in the bath. The glance down at Kíli's still-bandaged leg makes him roll his eyes, and reach out to tug on one of Fíli's braids. "Go help your brother. He could use the bath as much as the rest of us."

The dwarrow splashes water in Ráva's direction, though he grins and climbs out anyway, crouching next to Kíli, the two murmuring back and forth a moment before Fíli starts to help Kíli with his clothes. It takes three of them to get Kíli into the water without putting undue strain on his injured leg, but once he's in, the expression of glee on his face, despite the chill, is worth the effort.

"Where did you get that scar, Mr. Ráva?" Kai is looking at Ráva's back with a furrowed brow, and Ráva raises an eyebrow. "The one that goes from the top of your shoulder down toward your hip?"

"Ah." Ráva gives him a wry smile. "I had an unfortunately close encounter with an irate nomad." He grins, not expanding on the story - it seems to lose some of its amusement value when he tells it. Although he's always found it amusing, despite the rather painful wound and impressive scar he'd gotten out of the bargain.

"Is that the one you got when some girl thought you were more interested in her brother's camel than her?" Síndri gives Ráva an innocent smile when he turns to stare at her. "That's at least _one_ of the stories about how you got that scar."

"I didn't think my brother ever told the story with a _camel_ involved." Ráva pauses, not quite sure he actually wants to hear that version of the story. Then again, he annoys kings and smiths who are inclined to step on him, so. "Feel free to tell the story, though."

Síndri laughs, and then proceeds to do just that. Ráva leans against the wall of the basin, trying to figure out which of the variations on the story it had started from. There's not much resemblance to the actual incident left, but it's amusing and fun, and he grins when Kai looks at him with wide eyes as if to ask if any of it's true.

Looking around at the others, he thinks the story is worth the smiles and laughter, to see them all relaxed and happy - and particularly Tílithluin, after the meeting earlier. Though there's something in her expression that suggests she's not quite all there, and Ráva thinks of moving across the basin to try to draw her back into the fun. Kíli, though, gets there first, moving away from Fíli to avoid a splash of water, and at the same time, pressing a shoulder against Tílithluin's.

"Do you know that Fíli once tried to braid ribbons into Uncle Thorin's hair?" Kíli grins unrepentantly at Fíli's cry of foul. "There were some humans who came to trade, and one of the girls traded ribbons for one of the toys Bofur had made Fíli."

"You were the one who suggested braiding them into uncle's hair!" Fíli protested, flicking water toward Kíli, only to hit Tílithluin in the process.

"I was only sixteen!" Kíli shrugs, still grinning, and nudges Tílithluin. "Have you ever done something like that?"

"Well, it's not quite the same, but once when my grandmother was still here, we made all the candles burn blue for the Feast of First Leaves. It was a thing she could do - her name Luinauriel even means 'blue fire'  - and she tried to teach me. I could light them, but they weren't very blue. The King was very wroth, but the Queen liked it. I remember how she laughed. I wasn't even as old as you are now, I don't think, in years of the sun."

Ráva grins as the others laugh, trying to imagine the look on Thranduil's face. It's quite satisfying to think of him as annoyed at so innocent a trick, especially if his queen enjoyed it.

"Were your ribbons blue, by any chance? I am imagining them blue."

There's a glint of mischief in Kíli's eyes, and Fíli lunges as if to stop him from answering, though Ráva can imagine he's not really serious about doing so.

"I'm sure one was blue. And I think one was green, and one was pink. There might have been a purple one, too, but I'm not sure."

"The one you tied around Mr. Dwalin's head was purple." Fíli grins at the mock-scowl on Kíli's face, and dodges the splash of water sent his way. "It looked quite fetching when mum let him braid it into _your_ hair."

Tílithluin laughs, an infectious sound, and Ráva relaxes against the side of the basin again, trying to avoid the splashing and flicking of water, though Síndri doesn't let him escape entirely. He's not quite sure how long they spend in the tub, but Kellen is the first to climb out, shivering a little even as he grins, going to snag one of the towels that are stacked in the cubby behind Kíli's chair, drying swiftly before grabbing his clothes.

Kai is next out, and the rest soon climb out as well, though it takes as many to get Kíli safely out as it took to get him in, and he's settled on his chair with a towel before Fíli bothers to dry off and dress himself.

"If you have time on your hands tomorrow, we'll welcome the extra hands down here. Might be able to get this done in another week, if the hot-water pipes don't have too much build-up." Síndri starts unraveling her braids, to let her hair dry. "And before any of you try to offer to help with that, I'll not be letting any of you. It's my duty, since this is my project."

Ráva thinks that since Thranduil isn't planning on returning tomorrow, any talk on the treaty is likely to be less acrimonious and more productive than today, which means the chances of escaping are far more tenuous. Though he still has yet to figure out just why anyone wants him at the interminable meetings about a treaty he has nothing really to do with, unless it's to give the impression of Thorin having a proper court, with sufficient advisers to match Thranduil's. In which case, he'll have to remember to thank Balin properly, possibly by feeding him one of the dishes from Harad that will leave him unable to taste anything else for days.

"We should, if Mr. Ráva bellows like he did today." Fíli is grinning at him, and Ráva rolls his eyes. "Sent the elven-king off in a strop."

"Yes, well, I always did enjoy thunderstorms a little too much." Ráva pulls his shirt on, shrugging his shoulders to get it to settle before he puts on the tunic over it. "So long as Prince Legolas is more reasonable than his father - and everything I've seen or heard suggests as much - than there might be actual work done on the treaty tomorrow."

"When you're done, then, if they don't keep you past dinner." Síndri shrugs. "Eventually they have to come to contract, though why they don't leave it to people who know what they're doing, and look it over after, I don't know."

Tílithluin looks up from fastening her boots. "I'm not sure there are many, if any, here who truly know how to build an accord between our peoples. With the exception of you and your band." She nods to Síndri, and to Ráva. "Not for a hundred and seventy coronár has there been formal discourse twixt Wood and Mountain, and there has not been true peace this Age, not since Celebrimbor sang with Narvi at the Gates of Hollin."

Ráva tilts his head, curious, particularly when Tílithluin's smile turns sad. It's a piece of history he has not heard, though there are some tales of the history of the west. The dwarrows of the Orocarni have always said that while perhaps the elves of the west might not be worth the time of their western kin, the avari were true friends, and they would welcome any who had respect for them and their works that came from the west.

"Mithrandir despairs of us, that we have not learned to make peace. Alliance at need is not enough against the coming of Shadow."

"No, it is not." Ráva leans against the wall to pull on his boots, lacing them closed. "Though sometimes, even our joined efforts are not enough to keep the Masters of the Darkness from stealing away kin from mountain and forest. Though 'tis difficult when they can find no shelter from the sun, nor safe hiding in the mountains."

A damp towel comes flying through the air, and Ráva catches it before it can hit his face. Kellen is giving him a pleading look. "Can the history lesson wait until we're elsewhere? I want dinner."

Ráva chuckles, and tosses the towel back toward the boy. "Go on then." He drapes his own towel over the edge of the cubby, so it has a chance to dry. "I, on the other hand, am curious about the history that's making kings into stubborn idiots."

It doesn't take long for the two boys, and the youngest dwarrows, to bolt as if they were being chased, with Síndri rolling her eyes as she follows her crew at a more leisurely pace. Leaving Fíli and Kíli to walk with Ráva and Tílithluin, though both the princes look as if they're not quite certain they _want_ to hear this, so much as they probably _need_ to hear it.

"Too few still in Arda know the histories, and fewer care to. Or regard them, if they do."

Ráva wishes that much weren't true, though it is all too much. Otherwise, why else did he know so little of the west-walkers, and the dwarrow outside the Orocarni? And they so little of those in the Orocarni, and in the mountains of Harad.

They have taken several steps down the corridor, walking slow so Kíli would not be strained to keep up, before Tílithluin spoke again.

"The Eldar are the children of Ilúvatar, the first-born, and the Naugrim are the children of Aulë, awakened after, but still when the world was very young, before Sun or Moon yet lit the sky. _'The world was young, the mountains green, No stain yet on the moon was seen, No words were laid on stream or stone, When Durin woke and walked alone.'_ "

Ráva had been born under the sun, but his brother had been born during the years before, and he had heard stories from him and from their mother of the long twilight under the trees. The safety of the east, of the misty river and the high mountains. And Durin is a name familiar to him almost as those of his own kin, if only because Haldasîcil had been most fond of the dwarrow who'd taught him the skill to make a blade and fold fire into the steel.

"No tale or song I know records how long it was before our peoples met, or what happened when they did. But by the time the Sun first rose, there were many great halls under the mountains, and trade flourished." Tílithluin pauses to draw breath, and Ráva takes the opportunity to tell a story of his own - history, but he's not planning on sharing it quite as completely as that.

"I don't know how they first met the eldar, but I know when first they met the avari." Ráva draws a deep breath, waiting a long moment. "They had crossed the great mountains - those we call now the Orocarni - and found safety in the mists of the Hîthduin. Many chose to live down the river toward the plain, but one trio remained high near the headwaters. They were there when a stranger came from the cracks of the mountain where none had been, with a flame in his soul that burned bright."

He glanced at Fíli and Kíli, who looked a little bored, and a little confused. "He named himself as Durin, and was given hospitality, though only one of the three thought it well to welcome him. They broke bread, and in the night, as they rested, the twisted forms of those who might have once been their kin came from the northern peaks. Durin stood between the avari who had no weapon save their hands and the tools they'd used to carve their home, and he defended them as if they were his own. It is there that springs the first friendship of dwarrow and avari."

Tílithluin looks as if she wants to ask questions about the story, or to know more, and Ráva smiles, shaking his head. Later, perhaps, but for now, he's more interested in the history she'd been telling.

"We learned from each other, and though some of us, too, lived in 'many-pillared halls of stone', our domains were largely separate. Against the Shadow in the North we were allied in defense, though rarely called to each other's aid. But Hvitvárir fell with Áikanil, Aegnor's herald, at Dagor Bragollach, and Elenveryaë and Anvari the Brave at Nirnaeth Arnoediad."

Ráva doesn't have any tales of dwarrow and avari falling together in battle, but they'd never had any great battles in the east - perhaps because the Masters of the Darkness they'd all so feared were busily fighting battles in the west, and didn't have the time to spare to search for avari hiding in the misty forests or dwarrows who'd built well-defended halls in mountains far from any bastion of the Darkness.

"And here's us." Fíli calls before Tílithluin can continue further, tilting his head at the door they've just passed. "Maybe more tomorrow?" He doesn't sound as if he's really certain he wants to hear more, but Ráva would wager he could be convinced, if only because these are stories he hasn't heard before.

"I could be convinced." He shrugs, looking over at Tílithluin, raising an eyebrow at her in silent question. Ráva wants to hear more now, but not at the expense of hearing it again later, in the company of Fíli and Kíli - and the two princes aren't hard company to bear.

"I will be very pleased to continue, at convenience." An almost shy smile curls the corners of her mouth, drawing an answering one from Ráva. "Usually nobody wants to listen."

"Tomorrow, then, after the arguing is over." Ráva hopes that won't prove too late in the day, but even if it does, he can survive a night without sleep to listen to histories he doesn't know.

* * *

They've gotten at least something done today, though Ráva suspects it's rather less than they should have gotten done. He's looking forward to a chance to talk to Tílithluin before dinner, until Thorin catches his attention, gesturing for him to stay back a moment, while others leave. Balin remains also, though only long enough to help Thorin remove the formal surcoat and corslet, so he's more comfortable as he settles back into the broad chair that had been hauled in before the meetings began.

"My sister-sons tell me a Tale of Durin, from your lands, Avari. I would hear it from you." He's watching Ráva with a curious expression on his face, and Ráva waits a long moment before he nods.

"Then I will tell you, though more properly than I told it to the princes. As I was told it, by my mother who was there." Ráva moves away from the wall where he'd been standing through the meeting again, and sits on the floor, folding his legs under him. Humming a moment before he begins, the song soft, and his eyes closed as he sings. After, he tells it again, translating the familiar words into Westron.

_When the forests dwelt under the stars_  
And in mists shrouded the shattered kin  
At the birth of the great sheltering river  
Dwelt there a cunning golden maiden 

_With her remained her bonded brothers_  
Bound to fight what to the fair hark  
They stood between the unwilling  
And the kin-stealing, hungering dark 

_Came to them in lone travel the flame_  
To ask at their door for shelter the night  
Not of the fair, nor of the twisted dark,  
Bearing upon his back an arc of light. 

_Spoke the knife, that they could not_  
Spoke the steady, the flame is unknown  
Spoke then the maiden who is highest  
Welcome you the flame into our home 

_Our fire we may share, save with the dark_  
That we might find others who fight  
Against the masters of the stolen souls  
Rather than follow blindly one too bright 

_Come then the flame into their home_  
And together they broke the bread  
Spoke in soft words of things half-seen  
The twisted forms of kin thought dead 

_When to their beds they took in sleep_  
The flame to the door did chose his rest  
And when came again the grasping hand  
He was put to a great and terrible test 

_For nothing a weapon had the unwilling_  
Save their hands and the tools for home  
And brought now the greedy dead  
Fangs sharp and claws of hard bone 

_Between them and their fallen kin he stood_  
Sharpened steel flashing from hand  
Slaughtered there at the root of the river  
He that hungering, desperate band 

_But took he harm from fang and claw_  
That brought even our strongest kin low  
Stood still between fair and dark  
Until had fled away all the shadow 

_Into her home the maiden brought him close_  
And with steady hand his wounds bound  
With herb and whispered word did heal  
That he might not by death be found 

_For here, she said, is one that will be friend_  
And greater than this shall none have we  
That his kin will be closest to our own  
And we shall watch ever after thee 

Silence greets the end of the tale, and Ráva opens his eyes to meet Thorin's glower steadily. He's not quite sure how to read the emotions underlying the expression, but he's certain of what he would call it. "I believe I said before, I'm accustomed to the glares of a smith who is far more frightening than you. Of course, the more I am in your company, the more I think he learned that glare from Durin."

The short laugh from Thorin is a surprise, though it's too-swiftly cut off by a wince that Thorin does not hide. Ráva twitches, but he doesn't move yet, not willing to break the mood by showing too great a concern.

"You have yet to see me at the forge, either," Thorin ripostes dryly, one broad hand pressed to his chest for a moment. Bilbo is at his elbow with a cup before Ráva can blink, but Thorin waves him off after just a sip. Ráva wonders how long the hobbit has been in the room, that he didn't notice him at all.

"Your Mother," Thorin says, "is Gullvara." It is not a question. "Your Smith Bayurfilik, his companion Abarulmatek."

Ráva draws in a deep breath, one hand shifting to lay flat against the floor as if to steady him against something he cannot name. He hadn't really expected for Thorin to know the stories, yet it feels a relief - a burden lifted that he hadn't wanted to carry - to hear the names he'd first heard from Haldasîcil spoken by someone else. He's not sure, for once, what his expression reveals, but more than he likely cares to.

He opens his mouth to try to speak, but nothing comes out, not the first time he tries. He accepts the cup of water Bilbo brings to him, draining it with a faint wish that it were wine, or the distilled ale from Dragon's Reach. "I. Had not thought to hear those names spoken again until I returned home." Nor any other of his kin, for he'll not speak their names to many - too great a risk, when they are the oldest surviving of the avari.

After another long moment, he adds, his voice rougher than he intends, "Haldasîcil will be no doubt pleased to know I have tangled my life with yours, and that of your kin."

"It was already 'tangled.'" The phrase has the sound of ritual, with 'tangled' in the place of another more traditional word. It makes Ráva sit a little straighter, his gaze fixed on Thorin without blinking. Letting himself be drawn out, and waiting.

Thorin sits straighter in his chair, and an echo of Flame shining in his eyes, "For Durin made answer to the three that strove with and for him, defended and defending: That thee and thine are as mine own, at desire or at need, from over mountain or under; my halls for shelter, my works for delight, my roads to bear you whither you might go.

"And all who follow in my line shall know this Word, and hold you kin, even unto the breaking of the world, and building it anew."

Letting out a breath, Ráva remains still for a long moment, before he pushes to his feet, coming over to sink to his knees in front of Thorin. His mind scrambles for words, for a language that might be understood, but falls back instead on the familiar language of his youth, words that are as ritual as Thorin's own.

" _Wherever so shall my brother go, so too thither shall go I, until the end of days. For his life is mine and my life is his, and ever so shall it be, that here I do swear upon blood and upon breath an oath of kinship. And if ever I should forsake my brother, let then my breath desert me, my blood spill from my body, and my life be forfeit to him whom I have betrayed._ "

Thorin holds the gaze, and Ráva lets the veiling about his soul slip, feä for fire, that Thorin may see as far as he can. He feels Thorin's hands come to rest on his shoulders, heavy with the weight of emotion, of ritual and oath and all that came before and will come after.

"This Oath do I hear, and shall in all ways remember. I, for my part, do Name you brother, by blood, by blade, by breath, now and henceforth."

A tiny blade appears in Thorin's hand, steel sheened and marked like oil, faint lines and whorls of every shade of gray and white, black and gold and red. An oath-knife, and older than them both. Thorin draws in a breath, deep and slow, a shift of the edge, and a single bead of blood wells up on the equally slow exhale. For a moment, even the air seems to shimmer around them, then both drop and sparkle vanish into the blade.

"And it is done."

Blinking, Ráva takes a long moment to settle back into himself, and draw the veiling back around his feä. He had come west as a curiosity, out of boredom, and had not expected to entwine his life in the mortal ebb and flow about him. No more than he already did, because of his family and his own inclination for wandering.

Yet he has, and he would not undo it for anything, even a chance to return to the hollows and peaks of home, the familiar forge and hearth and arguments of his closest kin. They'll endure without him, as they do when he leaves to wander.

Thorin leans back in his chair, the blade vanishing again as he tucks it wherever it had come from. There's a hint of rainbow about him, but it doesn't make Ráva's head hurt as much as it had before, and he tilts his head to one side a moment.

"You probably should have waited on such a thing for a while yet, but that would have needed for me to wait on the tale of my mother and her otornë." He shifts so he's sitting next to Thorin's chair rather than kneeling in front of it, continuing to watch Thorin so he can be sure the exchange of oaths and bindings - particularly the bindings - will not be enough to set back his healing.

"Kin-welcome does not wait on convenience." Thorin says, resting his head against the high back of the chair and closing his eyes.

"No, it does not." Ráva shrugs, though Thorin can't see it. He feels as at home here as he has at Haldasîcil's forge, comfortable and easy. Almost as if basking in the heat of a forge, and ever aware of the echoing thread of another's feä - the light, clear even through the veiling, of Thorin's flame - near to his own.

Thorin turns his head against the wood, meeting Ráva's gaze "Nor are oaths offered left unanswered. I have taken no harm from this."

"I know." It hadn't settled before he said those words, but Ráva _had_ known, from the lack of a painful edge to the leaking of light around Thorin's shielding. "Light through the trees, or through the forge-tunnel, spiraling out. Not shattered shards of glass."

Thorin nods at Ráva's description, and there's quiet for a brief moment. All too brief, Ráva is inclined to think when Fíli's voice precedes him and Kíli coming through the door, the two looking between Ráva and Thorin with curious expressions.

"What's not shattered shards of glass?" Fíli helps Kíli to a chair, before glancing over his shoulder, as if to make sure someone else is following. It's a moment yet before Tílithluin comes in the door, and Ráva smiles at her without moving from his place next to Thorin's chair. Fíli turns back before adding, "You were taking too long to catch up, and you both promised more stories of history."

"Did I?" Ráva raises an eyebrow. "I know I had hoped to hear more of the history Tílithluin was telling, but I don't recall promising more stories myself."

Fíli shrugs and grins, sitting on the ground at Kíli's feet, a conscious echo of Ráva's position relative to Thorin. "But you tell interesting stories."

Ráva chuckles, and waves for Tílithluin to join them, since it's clear Fíli and Kíli have decided Thorin needs to be included in the audience.

Tílithluin pauses in the arch of the doorway, her expression hesitant a moment before she relaxes minutely, and she glances over the room. As if she's comparing the room now to how it had been during the meeting earlier. Ráva beckons her again, waiting for her to find a place she's comfortable sitting. That she chooses to pull up a stool in a way that makes something of a triangle makes Ráva smile, shifting slightly to lean more easily against Thorin's chair.

She settles herself with a nod first to Thorin, another to Ráva. "What would you like me to tell? Shall I start where we left off?"

"I would enjoy that, yes. I am curious how the easy - if not close - relationship of dwarrow and eldar could become so markedly different from that of dwarrow and avari, rather than tending closer to what we have always held." Although the closest of relationships were unlikely to be repeated without so known and powerful a dwarrow - or as determined an elda as the trio of avari still remain.

"I was telling of the end of the First Age, and the battles against the Shadow in the North. The most complete telling of Dagor Bragollach, the Battle of Sudden Flame, is hard to read, being written in a very decorative and difficult hand, and the poetic style chosen is not best suited to the inclusion of lists. Of which the author was very fond. But, those lists are the very reason the poem is so useful as history, for they detail things such as which captains were standing with which princes, and the numbers of the individual household-troops. In the forty-seventh canto he lists out all the heralds, their companions and their fates. He's the only one who give us their names. Aegnor's Herald was Áikanil ..."

Ráva can see Fíli's eyes beginning to glaze over, though Ráva himself finds the information about _where_ the story came from as interesting as the story itself. It says something of those who kept the history, and what they considered important.

"Can we have more of the story, and less _about_ the story? Please?" Kíli interrupts, his expression pleading. "You promised stories."

Tílithluin blushes, the tips of her ears visibly red as she ducks her head a moment, before meeting Kíli's gaze. "It's important you know what I am telling is in the annals. That I'm not making it up, or seeing what isn't there."

"I wouldn't think you're making it up." Kíli frowns, shaking his head. "You're too honest to lie about something, even to tell a nice story. And anyway, all the best stories have embellishment. Everyone knows that."

"You would not think her story untruth," Thorin says to Kíli, addressing Fíli also with his glance. Ráva can see some hint of regret in his expression, probably for what reasons the two younger dwarrow are more interested in the story than the source of it. "You find her honest, as, indeed do I."

The blush that graces Tílithluin's face darkens, and she drops her head to hide her face in her hands before Ráva can give her an encouraging smile, though he catches a glint of a suspicious brightness in her eyes before she hides completely.

"Can you tell me why you trust her words? I know why I do." Ráva suspects Thorin wants more of the story, but he's visibly wanting an answer from his nephews first.

Kíli looks at Fíli, their expressions thoughtful, if a bit frustrated. At least they don't just insist that they do, rather than trying to figure out why.

"Because she's not lied before." Fíli's words are slow, and he frowns even as he says them, as if he's puzzling out the answer as he talks. "She's willing to help with even the hardest jobs, if she's the one best suited to finishing them."

Ráva shifts a little, leaning back with his hands clasped on his knee, as he listens to Fíli continue to lay out why he trusts Tílithluin's words, though there is a hint of frustration when he can't quite put his emotions into words.

"She doesn't try to hide." Kíli interrupts Fíli, his voice firmer. "Doesn't look away all the time. And she doesn't look down her nose at us. Even the elf-healer who stitched up my leg looked sorta like he wasn't sure it was worth his time, and Tílithluin never looks like that."

Thorin nods, "All good reasons to trust her as a person, yes. But there is more to believing a tale - story or history - than trusting - or not trusting - the person who tells it." He takes a sip from the cup Bilbo had handed him - the hobbit comes back a moment later to refill Ráva's forgotten cup, as well - and sets it down on the wide arm of his chair. Inviting Bilbo to join them with a tilt of the head, before looking back at his nephews. "You trust Bilbo. Do you believe his song of the moon and the cow and the fiddle-playing cat? Or his song of the Oliphaunt?"

"Those are just songs to entertain little ones." Kíli frowns, leaning forward a little before he makes himself sit back again - leaning his elbows on his knees would be a bad thing right now. "And cats can't play fiddles, anyway."

"Indeed, cats do not play fiddles. But the Oliphaunt is real. Dwalin, or Vorkha can tell you, for they have seen them."

"Which, if any, of the tales of Ráva's scar do you believe?" Tílithluin took her face out from behind her fingers, the blush finally subsiding. "Any of them? Any _part_  of any of them? Nearly every one is possible, if not plausible."

Ráva keeps his smile hidden, waiting to see if the princes decide on one of them. Kíli and Fíli lean toward each other, whispering fiercely - they must have heard other stories, since Síndri had told the first one. Probably arguing about which one might be closest to the truth, and therefore the best one to believe. He waits several minutes before he takes mercy on them.

"None of them are quite true, even the one closest to whatever version of it my brother has most recently told." He smiles when they look over at him, shrugging easily. "My favorite so far involves a falcon, a cask of wine, and falling into bed with a pretty daughter of men - though it's one that's more likely drawn from one of my brother's own escapades." He glances up to meet Thorin's gaze and raised eyebrow for a moment. "I've been content to let my brother spin the tale, because it's always amusing to hear the tale filtered back to me through many retellings."

"So what's the truth?" Fíli is watching Ráva with a puzzled expression.

"That a very frightened young nomad mistook the interaction of her horse and I, and tried to kill me. Badly." Ráva shrugs again. "My brother is the one who stitched the wound, and so tells the story of how I received it - but he never tells it the same way twice, and often the changes are deliberate, not a misremembering of the incident. It's something of a habit for him, to never tell the truth of a tale."

"Now, _that_  is a tale I believe," says Tílithluin, the corners of her mouth deepening in a not-quite-smile. "The truth of things is often plain in the telling, though not always. The King Under the Mountain did charge forth from the gate with but twelve companions, igniting the hearts of three armies hard-pressed and faltering, pushing back the foe and defeating the shadow-spawned chief of them, and the Eagles did turn the tide of the battle in the end. That too sounds like a children's rhyme, a made-up tale of glory. But we were all there. People are already turning it into song, adding, subtracting, embellishing. But there are also letters and diaries and plainer records. I still have the bark-slip with the message Bifur sent to Ravenhill, asking them to hold fast. If that slip is preserved, if I copy it faithfully into the record, that will be fact, not story, even an Age from now."

"But not everything written down is true, is it? Someone can write down a lie or an embellishment just as easily as they can say it." Fíli leans against Kíli's chair a little more, a frown on his face. "So how do you know what's true in a book? You can't see the person talking, and how trustworthy they are."

"You don't always." Bilbo has drawn his own stool up roughly opposite Tílithluin. "You can't even always trust lists and figures. It's why you don't assume something's fact if you only have one source."

"No, not everything written down is true." The sorrow in her voice is palpable. "Bilbo is right. Having something to compare it with is important. And the farther back one goes, the less one has to work with."

"So, you look widely. The person who wrote the Oliphaunt song, had he ever been to the South? Had he known people who had? Do we even know who he was? Those are questions that can be asked. Only, for that, we have entirely separate evidence, that Dwalin has seen one, and Vorkha as well."

"But lists - laundry lists, armory lists, family trees, packing lists - are still good sources, for rarely does the writer of them have reason to lie, though they may be mistaken. So if a list of heralds and their Princes, companions and fates is available, one can verify against what we already know of those princes. The 'Lay of Cúruith' tells of how Angrod and Aegnor laid siege to Amon Rúth, and their heralds are named in that, so there is Áikanil, though he is named in the Quenya form rather than the Sindarin, for the lay is of the older style."

As she talks, Tílithluin's hands are constantly moving, as if she could conjure images of the people she's talking about, or perhaps the texts she's read about them. It underlines the passion in her expression, and makes her all the more vibrant. Ráva leans back, one hand shifting from his knee to the floor behind to brace himself, tilting his head as he listens to her continue.

"In another place, Celegorm's herald is named, with a verse telling of his shield-friend and battle companion Eriod, and their love and valor an example to all, so we know the heralds had shield-companions. Hvitvárir as Áikanil's companion is mentioned but the once, in the line telling of their falling together, but the supporting evidence is there. Do you see?"

Fíli and Kíli nod almost as one, both leaning forward to catch every word, though they don't need to. They're as caught up in Tílithluin's passion as the words she weaves, and Ráva smiles to himself.

Tílithluin's eyes soften as does her voice, focused on something other than the here-and-now - a book, no doubt, remembered from times past. "But 'Cúruith may tell yet more, for the margins show the sigils borne by all the principals, and next to the well-known marks of Aegnor, and Áikanil's cup-and-flame, is a mark for which there is no gloss. An anvil, inscribed thus ..."

Her hand moves as if to pick something up, and she blinks, once more with them in the present. Her hands move in the air, sketching a shape that Ráva can all but see, a seven-sided geometric, something that he's seen in the details of this room when studying them rather than the occupants.

"If that is the mark of Hvitvárir, or his house or line, then he might have been at that event as well. Which would _also_  help place the Siege of Amon Rúth more closely to Dagor Bragollach than Siriol would have it. Less than a hundred córanar, not more than two, for all the warriors are 'wise and doughty in the strength of their years'."

"Ori may know, or Balin. Draw it, and we will find out." Thorin tells her, leaning forward, interest well caught. After a moment, where he seems to almost trace the invisible lines with his eyes, he settles back in his chair with a tiny wince that makes Ráva's lips twitch in sympathy. Thorin glances over at Fíli and Kíli.

"And there is the reason I believe Tílithluin's stories of history to be true: because she knows from whence the details come, and how to read and value them. On any point, she can say 'this is in the record, found here,' or 'that is embellishment, but is reasonable because,' or 'the Troll-fight is pure invention, as we know the battle was fought in daylight'. One can verify the key points without having to believe. One can know. Tale and teller must be assessed both separately and together for the truth." 

The princes nod, and Ráva smiles at their newly-found enthusiasm for the story behind the story, though they don't even notice, already asking Tílithluin for more of the story. At least they seem to have forgotten for now their earlier attempt to convince Ráva to give them another story - one which, at the moment, he's not certain he wants to tell.

* * *

"Have they come to contract _yet_?" Síndri is head and shoulders into one of the hot-water pipes, the rest of her crew currently loaned to Bjorkha to help clear out another mushroom cultivation room. "It's been nearly two weeks!"

"No, they haven't." Ráva leans against the wall next to her, watching her carefully. "They're still in there, quibbling over a last few details. Another few days, we all hope." Not the least, he thinks, Fíli and Kíli - the younger prince has been dragged into the meetings since the stitches in his leg were taken out. "How much longer do you think it'll be on the baths?"

Ever since they'd found a door in the back of a closet last week that led down a short corridor directly here, Síndri's been pushing her crew harder to get the place cleaned enough to use. The last task, of course, being the one she won't leave to anyone else.

"Tomorrow, if this deposit comes off as nicely as it should. I'll have to thank Vorkha for coaxing the vinegar out of the cooks. It's working well enough, if slower than proper cleaning acid." Síndri shifts, wiggling out of the pipe to snag her chisel. "All that's needed after is a good rinse to make sure all the grime is off down the drains, and the basins are filling up properly. If the healers aren't too stubborn, Thorin can have a bath then."

She dives back into the pipe, and her voice is muffled when she adds, low-voiced, "Might do the whole lot of you good to soak out all that animosity in a proper bath."

"It might, at that." Ráva smiles wryly, tilting his head back against the wall. Although he thinks it would do all of them good to see the annoyance who was supposed to be 'advising' Legolas dumped into a cold bath, robes and all, he doubts he'll be allowed to do such a thing. Tílithluin has more patience than he, to put up with the sneering twit. "I doubt some of them would deign to lower themselves so far as to be seen enjoying a good bath on their own, never mind in the company of others they think less of."

"Let them warp themselves off true, then. No skin off your knuckles." Síndri lets out a chortle a moment later, and Ráva hears a clunk of something tumbling. "There you are, you little bastard. Out of the way of my proper bath. Oh, clean hair, you will be mine tonight."

"I thought the baths won't be ready until tomorrow?" Ráva raises an eyebrow as Síndri backs out of the pipe again, with her chisel in one fist, and a multicolored lump of stone in the other.

"Not for public use, no." Síndri smiles cheerfully as she tosses the lump into the waiting bucket. "I can't let them be used by a king if they're not in proper working order, now can I? And how can I be certain of that if I don't check them myself? I'd not be any sort of proper dwarrow if I didn't make certain of my work."

Ráva chuckles, and gives Síndri a knowing look. "And you have the baths all to yourself for the evening, as a bonus."

"Well, of course." Síndri shrugs, and grabs the bucket with the rewards of her work in the hot-water pipes. "Shoo, now. Go tell the king he can have a bath tomorrow if he argues his healers into the idea."

Still chuckling, Ráva does as he's bid, hoping he won't have to listen to too much arguing before he can relay the good news.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem in the chapter, that Ráva uses to tell the story of Durin and his meeting the avari, is likely to be edited later, but the underlying story remains the same.


	3. Flame and Stone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shared bath is enough to relax the tension of days - and weeks - of negotiations stymied by one sticking point. If only for a few hours, before the one causing the greatest delay makes a tactical error in thinking Ráva might be sympathetic to his ideas. And Ráva finds himself reminded that meddling in politics is not something he’s either good at, or particularly suited to doing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter starts a few days after the end of the previous. There are also a variety of side-stories for this chapter, as certain conversations would benefit from other points of view.
> 
> [Síndri and Tílithluin](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1025428/chapters/2370134), a conversation between Ráva’s recruiting Síndri and Síndri talking to Sûlclaur.  
> [Feathers With Edges](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1025428/chapters/2370171), Síndri’s conversation with Sûclaur from Síndri’s POV.
> 
> Sketch of Síndri, without her finery, [here](http://archivevault.nfshost.com/S%C3%ADndri.jpg).

Tilting his head back against the tiled edge of the bath, Ráva closes his eyes, enjoying the heat of the water that's just short of being uncomfortable. Relaxing muscles that have tensed more with each dragging day's worth of meetings all arguing the same. Blasted. Point.

At least it's over early for today, as Thorin had sent them all out around noon, save for Ráva and Balin - and Bifur and Dwalin had joined them shortly after the meal, since it would take more than two of them to make sure Thorin was safely in and out of the baths without worrying for his still-healing ribs. It makes for a different atmosphere than the cold bath with Síndri and her work crew, who are all so young and exuberant.

The quiet splash of movement makes Ráva crack open an eye, watching the dwarrows for a moment before he closes them again. Bifur and Balin have both taking much the same position he has, letting the hot water do its work at relaxing muscles wound tight from being trapped in the never-ending rounds of politics.

Thorin, though, looks to be taking full advantage of finally being allowed more than a sponge bath, much as Síndri had planned to do when she kept the baths all to herself the first night after she'd finished fixing them. Although perhaps not with the sort of self-indulgence that Síndri had intended, but more a necessity for Thorin's sense of self-reliance.

Still, it's enough to be aware of Thorin at the moment, and to keep quiet until - unless - Thorin actually acknowledges a desire for company beyond having them present. And perhaps to keep Dwalin from interfering, but with the tall dwarrow bracketed by Balin and Bifur, he's not likely to be given a chance to do so. Ráva lets his lips twist up in an amused smile for a moment before his expression smooths out again.

The quiet splashing of Thorin's bathing is interspersed with soft noises of pain, though nothing enough for Ráva to want to move. The wounds are ugly still, but the gashes and cuts are scabbed over, and nothing suggests the broken ribs have shifted, so he continues to keep quiet, pretending to be nothing save part of the bath - a decoration, perhaps, if perhaps not the sort dwarrow would normally place in their halls. The thought provokes another momentary curve of lips that is the barest smile.

Opening his eyes a little while later, he meets Thorin's gaze easily when he looks around at Ráva, raising a lazy eyebrow in silent question. There's a sense that Thorin is more settled in his skin, which is good to see.

"Would you like some assistance in scrubbing your back?" he asks, breaking the quiet. Ráva's willing to do so, though a glance over at the others makes him think Dwalin would prefer to do the task himself. Dwalin doesn't speak, only watching Thorin with a expression of guarded worry that's less than it had been when they'd helped Thorin into the basin.

After a long moment, Balin huffs slightly, shaking his head with a smile that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. Collecting the sponge where it's been left, he says, "Spoiled for choice, aren't ye. Have ye a preference, or shall we take it in turns?" 

There's silence for another moment, a thoughtful one, before Thorin says, "No, I've not. Any or all." A smile makes him look younger, or at least lighter, and Ráva settles a little deeper in the water, giving way for the others to begin. "All," Thorin adds a moment later, with a bit of challenge and a bit of dare in his voice.

Balin chuckles, and moves to start on Thorin's back. Careful, to not jar broken ribs, but with a will, dislodging some flakes of blood that could be scabs or could have been missed by sponge baths before. He passes off the sponge to Dwalin, settling on the ledge near Ráva, a bit of a smile on his face.

Dwalin is more gentle even than Balin, working up the back of Thorin's neck, and across his shoulders, where he has to move hair around constantly to keep from pulling on it while scrubbing. The sponge comes next to Ráva, and he blinks a moment, before moving to kneel behind Thorin, to better reach as he works at ingrained dirt, paying as much attention to the quality of the light leaking around Thorin's shields as to the sense of muscle and bone under his hands.

It gives him an advantage of knowing when he's at the edge of too much, and he gentles the scrubbing a bit then, handing the sponge off to Bifur last, looking around to see his previous spot already taken up by Dwalin, who is grinning, a touch of challenge in the expression.

Snorting, Ráva moves toward the edge of the pool where it spills over into the next one, cooler, and slides over into it with an indrawn breath. He relaxes after a moment - the cool water is lovely against his skin, but still quite warm - and tilts his head back so his neck rests against the divider. A grin spreads across his face when he hears Dwalin chuckle, and counts it as a win.

The splash and movement of water makes Ráva tilt his head a little further back, watching Thorin move to sit near the dip in the divider between pools, chest and shoulders out of the hot water of the higher basin. The hot water has brought some healthy color to his skin, and the still-healing wounds are a darker blemish - red, without being the angry color of infection.

It makes Ráva wonder just how close Thorin had been to dying on the battlefield, particularly with the earlier impression of deep damage to his ribs. Bruises and breaks, in a pattern that suggests the crushing blow of a mace; it's an injury that any other than a dwarrow would not have survived at all, and most dwarrow might be hard-pressed to survive, in the state Thorin had been. All-out desperation and racing toward his doom without anyone to pull him back from that edge.

An edge he thinks Thorin still might have wobbled over, if not for the scene the day after the battle. Bilbo's forgiveness - for Thorin's actions after Bilbo had stolen the Arkenstone, as Ráva's since heard - had been a slender enough life-line, but it had kept Thorin from tipping toward death. Ráva isn't certain he wants to imagine what might have happened if Thorin had fallen, and left Erebor to a manifestly unready Fíli.

Shifting so he's not leaning so uncomfortably over the ledge between pools, Ráva tries to shove the thoughts away, not willing to darken the mood in the room. Letting it soak away into the heat of the water, washed away from one pool to the next. Ducking under the water for a long moment, listening to the muffled sounds of conversation already kept quiet, scrubbing his hands through his hair to help the water rinse away dried sweat and dust.

Coming up when his lungs are beginning to ache with the lack of air, he smiles at the amusement on Thorin's face. It is not like his fears, where another has been stolen away by Darkness or death. No failure to do all he might, or for his abilities to be inadequate to the task. Thorin lives, and will live, will heal - will rule beneath the mountain for years yet.

The rest of the afternoon passes in quiet conversation and good company, and Ráva leaves after Thorin and the others, his tunic draped over his shoulder as he makes his way through the main corridor toward his rooms. He's not expecting anyone, much less the ever-annoying elf Thranduil has left to "advise" Legolas - by which he apparently meant obstruct and delay the meetings by dragging out everything until they agree to his view because of boredom and frustration. Not that it has worked, but seeing him is still enough to annoy Ráva on principle.

"Is there a reason you're standing outside my rooms, or are you just failing to be decorative?" Ráva doesn't bother to attempt to summon a smile, crossing his arms over his chest so he doesn't do something impulsive, and shifting his stance somewhat wider to brace for whatever comes from the elf's mouth.

"I am wishful to speak with you about a small matter, as you have the ear of King Thorin, and I, regrettably, do not." That the elf is using the same sort of overly-polite tone and carefully-minced words that he does in the meetings only grates on Ráva's nerves more.

"And what might that be?" Ráva doesn't do much to modulate his own tone, preferring the familiar bluntness and what Moriornë has always termed near-rudeness over trying to play the elf’s game by his rules.

"King Thorin's preferred representative from the Woodland Realm to his council, young Tílithluin. One cannot but see how unsuited she is to the office. Even leaving aside her manifest inexperience and that diplomacy was never numbered a strength by her preceptors - which truly, one ought not, but that pales in the light of other ... issues."

The elf might have something of a point about the inexperience, but how anyone was to get experience if continually shut out because of their lack, Ráva is uncertain. And such an argument doesn't actually do much for him, never mind Tílithluin.

"As one of an unbroken line to the Eldar Days, I am persuaded you will understand the difficulty. Her heritage is regrettably mixed: her father's father a Silvan of an ... undistinguished line, and her father's mother a Noldo. One of that company who came from Aman."

Ráva is silent for a long moment, watching the elf with a carefully blank expression on his face, as he wonders if it would be particularly unworthy of him to break the elf's nose. It's very tempting, considering the insult he's paying Thorin, and his obvious intent to insult Tílithluin - and drive a wedge between her and the others while he's at it.

"I do not see how your arbitrary social conventions make one group of west-walkers any better than another, particularly when you're not speaking of those who made the fool's decision to follow a stranger." He smiles, sharp as a knife's edge. "Fortunately for all of you, I don't judge based on parentage, or you'd all be beneath my notice."

The elf’s expression doesn't even change, save perhaps for some momentary disgust, but his tone becomes even more condescending, in a manner that makes Ráva bristle all the more.

"The Noldorin are _kinslayers_."

"So I've heard, of some individuals. Though I do wonder how you expect to call Tílithluin that, as the only kin I'm aware she has still in Arda is an annoyance to her that's very much alive." Ráva uncrosses his arms, his sharp smile becoming more ragged and feral. "Now, unless you'd like a reason for someone in this mountain to have the potential to be called a kin-slayer by the definition you're using, I'd suggest you leave before I am tempted to do more than break your nose."

The elf draws back, looking absolutely appalled for a moment, staring at Ráva before he mutters, clearly not meant to be heard, "You're as unreasonable as the Dwarves with whom you chose to throw your lot."

"Dwarrows, not dwarves, and you're running out of time, elf." Ráva spits out the last word like the insult he means it to be, though he keeps himself from taking the step nearer the elf by reminding himself that Thorin would not appreciate having blood spilled in the corridors of Erebor at the moment. Probably.

"I thank you for your time. I take my leave." The cold tone of the elf's voice is unsurprising, and Ráva lets a small smile curve the corners of his mouth. The elf doesn't take his eyes off Ráva until he's at the corner, and goes around it with care - hopefully to bolt now that he's out of sight.

Ráva waits a moment more before he steps into his rooms, dropping his tunic in a heap before making his way to the bedroll laid out next to the hearth and its banked fire. He stares at it - for how long, he's not quite certain - until he is calm enough to build a fire from the coals, movements deliberate and precise. The idea of breaking the elf's nose is still very much at the front of his thoughts, but he's able to keep himself from doing any harm for the moment.

Tomorrow, though, he makes no promises.

* * *

Ráva checks the room before he enters, glad to see none of the elves is yet present, even Tílithluin - he does enjoy her company, but right now, he would rather she weren't witness to his still-simmering fury over the idiot elf, and the idea Ráva could be swayed to undermine Tílithluin by news of her heritage. He makes his way across the room to his usual place, though he can't make himself relax and lounge against the wall as he might normally. It's perhaps not the best idea to be in the meeting today, but he wants to make sure the elf knows just what annoying him in this fashion might do.

Although he has left his sword in his room - another change from normal - so he isn't tempted to use it. It would be rather rude of him to kill someone who is supposed to be something of an ally, if in a very broad and loose sense of the term.

"With allies like him, we wouldn't need enemies," he mutters to himself, barely aware of speaking the thought aloud. Ráva knows the others are staring at him, if not directly in most cases, and he doesn't really care. He looks up at Balin after a moment, a thought occuring to him. "What is the name of the... elf... that Thranduil left to advise Prince Legolas?"

"Lord Sûlclaur. Is something the matter?" Balin glances over at Thorin, and Ráva knows he should have begun with the explanation of what happened the night before, after the pleasant afternoon in the baths.

"Oh, something is indeed the matter." Ráva smiles, bright and almost cheerfully vicious, before he outlines the encounter the night before. It should be enough to explain why he's left himself without a blade - even his eating knife is with his sword - and is currently all but shaking with the desire to cause physical harm to the elf. Sûlclaur, he reminds himself, so he won't forget the enemy who had been left in their midst.

Balin's expression doesn't change much, but the subtle narrowing of the eyes, the faint tightness around the mouth are all that are needed to see his disgust at the maneuvering of Sûlclaur. His is perhaps the most restrained of the reactions, though no one really speaks immediately after Ráva's finished.

Thorin's expression is dark and cold with anger, his hands fisted on the arms of his chair, as if holding onto his temper by sheer force of will. Ráva can well understand that, and while it's somewhat comforting to know he's not alone in his fury, it doesn't allow it to abate in the least. It will have to be Prince Legolas who sees - and he can only hope will understand - just why Sûlclaur is utterly unable to remain, aside from his constant delays on the treaty.

"Something must be done," Thorin says finally, words seeming sharper and more sudden in the tense silence. They're welcome words, regardless, and Ráva feels something tightly wound in him loosen a little at them, if not at all ready to release. "Something will be done."

Ráva nods, not trusting himself to speak again yet, though he's at a loss what to do. He may have been present for the last several days, but politics are still beyond his knowledge or skill, and what he might do in this situation might not be the best option.

"Prince Legolas will like this no better than we do," Balin says, his expression thoughtful and almost calculating. "But how to make him see it in a way that will require a public and definite response?"

"Bard and some of the others are coming." Ori is standing near the door, where he can watch the hallway without being seen easily. "What are we going to do?"

Ráva is quiet a brief moment. "If there's anything that comes up - anything at all that can remotely be seen as something that might need, or even want the attention of one or more of us - use it to call off the meeting for today?" And now that it occurs to him, he has the kernel of an idea, if he can talk to Síndri. What little he knows of Steelwind and of her past, she should have a better idea what to do with Sûlclaur.

There are curious looks from the others, and he shakes his head slightly as Bard comes into the room, followed by the couple of other Men he'd kept with him at the meetings. Not that he needs to do much, since he'd had no objections to any part of the treaty that applied to him and to Dale.

Not far behind him, a dwarrow comes in that Ráva thinks he's seen working with Bofur, looking more excited than most of that crew have when Ráva's caught glimpses of them. "King Thorin." He doesn't even wait for a proper acknowledgement from anyone before he adds, "We found a way through to the Third Well of Hammers."

The news is welcome, and Ráva straightens as Thorin stands, waiting to hear what else the messenger might say. Though he doesn't have a chance before Tílithluin and the elvish scribe step into the room; Thorin nods, and Tílithluin smiles in return, greetings silently exchanged.

"A moment," Thorin says, though it doesn't make the messenger settle greatly. "All should hear this."

The others arrive on the heels of Thorin's words, Legolas hurrying, and Sûlclaur behind him - behind everyone, with an expression on his face that speaks to Ráva of an unforgivable indifference to the tone of the room. Only once they're in earshot does Thorin gesture for the messenger to go on.

The wait, for all that it doesn't seem to damp his enthusiasm, does seem to have registered on the dwarrow, and his eyes widen for a moment. When he speaks, though, the moment of nervousness has passed, and he's all happy excitement once more. "We've broken through the passage to the Third Deep, and the way is clear to the Third Well of Hammers. Bofur sent me as soon as he knew that was where we were. They will have cleared the rubble enough to actually get through by now."

There are expressions of pleasure on most faces, though not unmixed with a bit of puzzlement in the cases of the Men and of Legolas. It's Dáin's representative who answers that confusion, and Ráva is glad for the information - because while he knows well what such a place would be, he's not familiar with Erebor, and therefore just how significant any particular workshop is.

"Third Well of Hammers: main production forge, first of the working forges to draw power and heat from the vein of fire in the North arm of the Mountain. First delved in the days of Thorin I."

A forge akin to those in Dragon's Reach, then, or in Ice River, rather than those in River's Cradle. Ráva lets a smile curl up the corners of his lips, glad he already has a basic knowledge of the great forges - not much more than intellectual, though, as despite the friendship between dwarrow and avari, the dwarrow were not keen on any of them being present in the great forges.

Of course, Haldasîcil and the smiths he'd taught were equally reluctant to allow dwarrow into their forges, despite the fact both traded information on techniques and materials from time to time. Actually, they tended to be reluctant to let _anyone_ into their forges save apprentices - when they had to work together, they often built new forges for the work.

"Thank you, Hvityr." Ráva isn't sure how to read the expression on Thorin's face, though he thinks perhaps a touch of embarrassment over not answering the unspoken question himself is part of it. "This is very glad news for all of us, and I shall wish to see it myself as soon as may be. Master Bard, Prince Legolas, would you care to see as well?"

A mischievous spark is in Thorin's eyes when he makes the invitation, and Ráva suspects it's the annoyed and unhappy expression on Sûlclaur's face that might have a good deal to deal with why the invitation has been made - though it's a genuine one, regardless, of that Ráva is certain. He lets a bit of a smirk cross his face at the discontent it brings to Sûlclaur's face.

"Yes, I'd like that," Bard replies, almost immediately, though his expression says clearly he'd not expected it, and is glad for it, regardless.

Legolas's tone and words are more measured, but there is still a light in his eyes and expression that speaks of interest. "I, too, would be very pleased to view this achievement." Though that's likely as much interest in a chance to see the inner workings of a dwarrow forge as anything else - perhaps not a very kind thought, but even toward the prince, Ráva isn't feeling entirely kind.

"Then we shall recess for today, and meet again tomorrow to continue our discussions." Thorin doesn't allow time for objections, and Ráva steps away from the wall to fall in behind Thorin, watching Sûlclaur out of the corner of his eye warily. The elf is not happy with this change of plans, and the sharp smile Ráva flashes him when Sûlclaur dares to look in Ráva's direction is pure malice.

Once they're out of the room, and Sûlclaur has headed off to his own accommodations, Ráva relaxes a little, following in the wake of Thorin and the messenger toward the Third Deep and the associated Well of Hammers. Many of the corridors they pass through still bear scars and debris from the years the mountain had been home to a dragon, despite the work crews working every day to clear them and repair them. Some, after all, are more important than others, and those that aren't will have to wait for their repairs.

There are still several being worked on, and in places there are rooms off them where work stops for those inside to peer out of the doors as they pass by. Ráva spots some that he recognizes, and nods to them, getting smiles in return. Most of them aren't paying attention to him, though, as much as to Thorin.

A rough-hewn passage through what appears to be the remains of a rock fall leads to a wide space with familiar tools of the forge as well as some that Ráva has never seen before. Tools made by the clever hands of the dwarrows, and waiting in the dark for them to return and put the tools once more to work. It must have been magnificent when in full swing, and no doubt will be again, though how long that will take is a question Ráva hasn't the information to answer himself.

Bofur is waiting for them, the messenger from him having been sent back to let him know they were coming, and he smiles cheerfully when they step into the large room. "It'll take some work to get it going again, but the forges are still in good condition, if a bit dusty. The biggest problem is going to be getting the lines back open to that vein of fire."

"Thank you, Bofur. This is far better than I might have hoped." Thorin sounds hopeful, and Ráva smiles to himself, looking at the room around them with undisguised curiosity. He'll write to Haldasîcil, tell him of the forge, though how much the smith will listen, and how much he'll scold for telling him about it, he's not certain.

"The fire-lines, can you show me where they are?" Thorin's words draw Ráva's attention back to him, and he looks at Bofur himself, wondering.

"Where they come out to the distribution hub is easy enough, though a bit of a climb." Bofur is grinning, already all but bouncing on his toes. "The rock-channels are more of a mystery, though I'm fair sure of the general area, and some of where they aren't."

"Show me the general area first, then."

Ráva follows Thorin and Bofur over to the massive, wide pillar with a cornice that looks more akin to a fountain of sorts than anything else. It has a faint resonance that reminds him of the fire in Thorin, and makes Ráva tilt his head, almost reaching out to listen to the stone, save there are more witnesses than he cared to have for such.

"That up there is the main distribution valve. There's at least three sub-valves, and there might be another big one at the other end - stairs are damaged, so we've not climbed up yet to see, though we will, o' course." Bofur is pointing out the various elements as he talks, and Ráva can all but see how it will work, where the traces still lie of the fire that once ran over stone. "Lines run up through here, then feeders out and all over. The feeders will be straightforward to look over and work on - attachment points already placed for harness."

"I've done similar work," Hvityr says, though Ráva's barely paying attention, reaching out fingers to touch the stone lightly. "Couple in my unit I've worked with. Help if you like."

There's a brief silence, before Thorin says, "It is your project if you want it, Bofur. Recruit whom you will." There's something that Ráva had missed, but he ignores it in favor of reaching out a little, listening to the whisper of the stone. It's really quite a bit more intriguing than is probably safe. And he still has to speak to Síndri about Sûlclaur.

He misses more, he thinks, but doesn't really much care, aware when Thorin comes up beside him, when Thorin reaches out to the rock with flame, in a way that feels right, and reminds Ráva why he always returns home from time to time. Welcome and home and the simple _rightness_ of being so close to a Smith, to the flame that he sees as easily as he breathes - he forgets that sometimes, when he's shut himself far inside to hide from everything he fears.

Ráva watches Thorin, almost blind to the rest of the room, as he leans into the rock, learns the shape of the stone beneath their hands. He reaches out, light and careful, to touch Thorin's shoulder with the fingertips of one hand. Offering - anchor, strength, whatever might be needed - without thinking, as he might Haldasîcil, that Thorin can do as he needs-wants without the risk that Working alone can bring.

Risk he's peripherally aware can be to each, with the call of the stone - the call of the Mountain - singing to them both. Ráva shifts, drawing his hand away from the stone, though it feels almost painful to do so. Letting his focus settle on Thorin alone, to be the second to the Smith, the one who is there to be anchor and power-well and reminder there is a world outside the Work. Who just _is_ , steady and waiting.

He feels the chain as Thorin creates it, warm iron and steel that he wraps mental fingers around - wraps a loop about him, settling himself more firmly to hold the line steady. It's different than the ice-wrapped shadow-iron of Haldasîcil's anchor-line, or the steel-silk-moonlight of his mother as second-anchor for the edged silver-shadow Smith. Thorin is sun-bright without blinding, heat that doesn't burn.

There's a whisper across his mind that he tucks away to look at later - the distraction is unwanted now, even coming from the Smith he anchors - watching Thorin as he follows the paths down to the deep, where fire and stone meet and meld. Knowledge slides along the chain, thoughts shunted aside like the earlier whisper, things to be seen-heard when the Work is done, and the Smith back to himself.

Ráva can feel the Flame Thorin calls, hear the echo of ritual words, the Working of a promise, minor perhaps in comparison to the Working that waited, but enough for now. He holds steady the steel-and-iron chain, feeling Thorin's working his way back to awareness, to the world beyond the stone, the world outside the Work. Only when he feels Thorin move under his fingers does he let the chain go, carefully as he had taken it up.

It's then that he feels the tremble in his own limbs, the knowledge that if he does not at least lean against the stone as Thorin is, he will fall down. Far better to do so under his own power, a controlled slide to the floor with his back to the stone, than to let himself topple over. His head tilts back under its own weight, resting against stone, and Ráva closes his eyes, taking long minutes to remind himself of the shape of his own body and mind.

He slowly becomes aware of the audience, and has to push aside a surge of fear that the Working had been watched by those who were not to be privy to it. This is not Haldasîcil's forge, not a Working that must be hidden and the secrets of the Making unknown to any but Smith and his Second. They'd been there when Thorin had begun, and he doesn't think there are more than had been there.

They're not important yet, though, and he turns his head to look at Thorin - almost at eye-level, which he hadn't quite expected, yet should have - and quirks up one eyebrow in silent question. There's none of the signs of over-strain that he would worry about, just honest exhaustion, and an expression that is somewhat mixed. Satisfaction at a Working well done, a somewhat rueful triumph, and something else Ráva can't quite interpret.

"Thank you." The words are quiet, and slightly rough, but Ráva smiles at them before he shrugs. It had been what needed done, and he knows well how to be second to the Smith.

"You're welcome."

"What was just happening?" Bard's voice draws Ráva's attention, and he looks over at the man, a tired smile crossing his face. Men aren't able to see the same way an avari - or elf - might, or even dwarrow, and so they never truly see the Works as they would be seen my most others.

"A Working," he answers simply, though it doesn't tell Bard much. "It is best explained by those whose work-space that it is. I was simply the Second to the Smith." He tilts his head to indicate Thorin, leaving the explaining to him as Ráva drags his scattered thoughts back to him bit by bit. He has to talk to Síndri about Sûlclaur, and there are the impressions and thoughts that had drifted along the anchor-line from Thorin to him to sort out. Not things he particularly wants to do with company.

It's several more minutes before he can drag himself to his feet without concern for his balance, and he turns first to Thorin, studying him for a long moment before tilting his head to him. "I will take my leave of you, if I may." It is a respect that he comes so close to asking - though the real question is more if Thorin is steady enough on his feet that Ráva can safely leave him to his own devices, and the helping hands of others as needed.

Thorin returns the nod, both subtle dismissal and reassurance, and Ráva makes his careful way back out the way they had come, before going in search of Síndri.

* * *

_"I'll need a day to be ready. Make sure whoever you want as witness is at the eating hall for breakfast day after tomorrow. Though they may want to be a little... late. No need to have him realize he's being set up soon enough to watch his words."_

Síndri's words aren't really a reassurance, and Ráva wishes he knew what she had in mind - she'd refused to talk about it once she knew what he wanted information to deal with. He also would like to know how to get Legolas, at least, to the eating hall for a late breakfast, when he's not even sure when the prince eats breakfast in the first place, nor if he eats it in his rooms, or actually in the eating hall.

Letting his head thump back against the wall, Ráva sighs, staring up at the ceiling. Of course, he could always go the direct route, since it's not Legolas that's the problem - he's the one who should have dealt with the problem already, and Ráva neither knows why he hasn't, nor what his reaction might be if presented with whatever situation Síndri is planning. It's the latter that presents a potential complication.

"Mr. Ráva?" Bilbo's voice draws Ráva from his contemplation of just how many things could go wrong with a plan he doesn't even know, and he looks over to where Bilbo is standing, with a tray in hand that has the remains of someone's dinner. Possibly Thorin's, but it could just as easily be Bilbo's, if he's been eating anywhere not the kitchen or eating hall. "Have you eaten dinner yet?"

Ráva isn't actually sure he's eaten anything since breakfast, which is not a particularly intelligent thing to have done when he'd been doing even simple anchoring in an arcane Work. "No, I haven't, but I had been about to go down to find what the kitchen has for those who don't attend regular meals in the eating hall."

Bilbo gives him a look that says clearly he doesn't believe Ráva in the least, but he lets it pass for now. "I was just taking Thorin's dinner tray down before I had my own dinner, and I wouldn't mind the company." He watches Ráva expectantly, and after a moment, Ráva straightens, walking beside the hobbit as Bilbo makes his way down to the kitchens, using a side corridor that bypasses the main eating hall.

The cooks inside greet them both with smiles, and at least in Bilbo's case, inquiries as to how Thorin liked dinner this evening, and if he had any tips for the next meal sent up. Ráva is simply happy to settle at one of the tables off to the side with a mushroom tart, while a boy sets a plate down for Bilbo before the hobbit manages to extract himself from the company of the cooks, chuckling.

He smiles at Ráva as he settles across from the avari, taking a bite of his dinner, silence falling a moment while they both eat. "So, what were you worrying about earlier?" Bilbo glances up from his food to meet Ráva's gaze a moment, before he turns his attention ostensibly back to the food.

"A small problem of how to make sure somewhere is in the right place at the right time when I don't actually talk to said person." Ráva takes another bite of the tart to keep himself from saying anything more while in the public venue of the kitchen. Though there is something else that occurs to him, that Bilbo might have the answer for - but it's something that he, again, doesn't want to talk about in the kitchen. "Perhaps something to talk about elsewhere?"

"Of course." Bilbo nods, giving Ráva a quick smile. "You should finish eating that first. I heard about the little stunt you and Thorin pulled earlier. I should hope that isn't the first food you've had since breakfast."

"I'm not certain, myself." Ráva shrugs. Even if it is, it won't kill him, so long as he doesn't skip meals too often. Especially after assisting in a Work. "I will eat as I am hungry, Mr. Baggins, I promise."

Bilbo doesn't look entirely convinced, but he merely sighs, and focuses instead on his food, silence falling between as they both finish their meals, and make their way back from the kitchen to the corridor where the rooms for Thorin and those closest to him are situated. It had felt odd when one of those had been given to Ráva, but after weeks worth of being part of the treaty process, it makes more sense.

"I have chairs in my room, if you would prefer to talk there." Bilbo glances up at Ráva, a somewhat disapproving look in his eyes a moment. As if there's something deeply wrong about Ráva choosing not to have furniture brought to his rooms, from what's been salvaged. Most everyone has at least something in their rooms beyond a bedroll and their clothing.

Ráva shrugs. "If you'd prefer a chair, I have no objection." He'll worry about furniture when there are fewer concerns about bad rock and enough food to feed everyone through the winter. He's lived many long periods where he's not had the sort of comforts that Bilbo seems to take as necessary when settled in one place, if usually because he's been traveling, and can only take with him what he can carry himself.

Nodding, Bilbo goes past Thorin's rooms, where he's taken up a smaller room that looks as if it's more a sitting room than anything useful for sleeping. Ráva raises an eyebrow, but settles into one of the chairs on either side of a small hearth, so not to make Bilbo uncomfortable. There's silence a moment before Ráva lets out a soft sigh, and begins to tell Bilbo the conversation with Síndri. At least Bilbo had been in the room that morning when Ráva had first told others about Sûlclaur approaching him last night, so it does not need said again.

"Hmm." Bilbo leans back, watching Ráva after he’s finished speaking, a small frown on his face. "You'll want someone who knows Legolas better to talk to him - and I wouldn't recommend Tílithluin, though she does seem to be friendly enough with him. Bard might do, but he'll want to know why, and while he might not talk about it, he's not going to be good at hiding any annoyance he might have with Sûlclaur."

"Something which I'm afraid I have in common with him, at the moment." Ráva still would prefer to deal with Sûlclaur in a more personally satisfying manner, though it would do nothing for diplomatic relations between Erebor and Mirkwood. Which is part of why he's letting Síndri loose at Sûlclaur - another part of that being Síndri's fondness for Tílithluin, since before Ráva had even been aware the young elleth existed. Far better to watch her deconstruct him verbally than tossing him out on his backside, bloody and bruised.

Bilbo's expression is caught between disbelief and amusement for a moment before he shakes his head. "I'll talk to Legolas myself," he says after smoothing out his expression, though there is still a strong undercurrent of amusement in his voice. "It seems I'm the only one who can consistently get along with - or at least not start a yelling match with - everyone who has the least bit of power." He pauses, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair. "Even Dáin is polite, though I don't think he knows what to make of me."

Ráva snorts, smiling when Bilbo gives him a look that demands an explanation from Ráva. "Dáin's boring, and I doubt he'd still be here if he weren't kin, and Thorin still not yet officially crowned."

"He'll leave soon enough, actually. The Iron Hills will need their Lord back," Bilbo points out, getting out of his chair to go over to a table which holds an odd assortment of jugs, cups, and utensils. "Would you care for tea, or some wine? I don't know where my manners have gone, that I hadn't offered sooner."

"Whichever you're planning to pour yourself." Ráva shrugs. "I'm not offended by the lack of drink. The offer to listen was more needed - and the offer to speak to Prince Legolas more than I had expected."

"Oh, don't worry about it." Bilbo pours two glasses of wine, handing one to Ráva as he comes back over. "It needs done, and if you don't want to involve more people, I really am the ideal person to do so." Settling back in his chair, Bilbo watches Ráva for a long moment. "Why ask Miss Síndri to help with Lord Sûlclaur?"

Ráva takes a sip of the wine, rolling it around his mouth a long moment before he replies. "She's familiar with the sort of politics Sûlclaur plays, though she doesn't like them. I hope it will be enough to get the damning words to come out of his mouth with the right audience listening - or wrong audience, depending on your point of view."

Bilbo chuckles, nodding, before he takes a sip of his own wine. "Enough of his own words said in a situation and manner where Legolas cannot assume anything but the truth, I expect. Lord Sûlclaur's quite good with words, though there are some phrases he uses that I expect probably mean something different to him, to Legolas, and likely to you, if you were paying attention."

There's a knowing expression on Bilbo's face a moment, and Ráva tilts his head in acknowledgement of the blow. He really doesn't enjoy being in the meetings, and is certain Bilbo isn't the only one who's noticed he pays very little attention to a majority of the proceedings.

"As it is, one hopes he doesn't use such neutral terms when speaking to Síndri, but something more akin to what had you so furious this morning." Bilbo sighs, a troubled expression passing over his face a moment. "I do understand how someone could be so close-minded, though, without anyone thinking twice about it, or even realizing it's at all a problem. It's not a pretty thing, but I do hope it's something that can be remedied, in the end, and not simply by sending Lord Sûlclaur away."

Ráva remains silent in the face of that, sipping more of his wine. He doesn't much care if it's something that Sûlclaur can unlearn, not when it has far too much chance of causing harm to those Ráva holds as friends.

The silence draws out, almost uncomfortable before Ráva drains the last of the wine in his glass, standing to return it to the sideboard. "I will leave the task of coordinating those who need to witness what Síndri intends with Sûlclaur to you, Bilbo. I think you a far better person for the task than I." And a far kinder person than Ráva has any care to be at the moment.

Bilbo smiles, and Ráva tilts his head in a silent farewell before he leaves, returning to his own rooms. Now all he can do is wait, and perhaps beg off tomorrow's meeting in favor of doing something else. Darning his socks, if nothing else - even though there's not a hole in them, and he's always been terrible at attempting to repair his socks, anyway.

* * *

"And who are you, 'Mistress Síndri of Steelwind Height', to inquire so of me? Why are _you_ here?"

Ráva settles against the wall on the opposite side of the door from where Legolas and Bilbo are standing, listening to the conversation inside the room. There is a faint frown on the prince's face, and Ráva wonders briefly what he's missed that's put that expression on Legolas's face.

"I am the eldest daughter of the Third Family, and I am the only one from my halls in Erebor. How am I to achieve their best interests if I do not know the players of the game here? And I would expect, as you are still here, that you shall be one of those I should know."

Síndri sounds amused, which is at least a good thing, Ráva hopes. Better than her being irritated or angry, at least, although why she's not even the least upset over the disdain Sûlclaur's question implies, he's not certain.

"Or should I have gone to one of the others as a stronger choice of ally in this game?"

"And what would you do with such an ally?"

Sûlclaur still sounds entirely too condescending to Ráva, but he's not the one who has to deal with that particular problem. Glancing over at Legolas, he notices that the prince's expression hasn't really changed, though his frown is a bit more thoughtful now. He meets Ráva's gaze a moment before looking toward the room again.

"Only those goals that my Prince hopes to achieve. After all, it would be poorly done to be on bad footing with Erebor's neighbors, and you will be here to help guide the association between Mirkwood and Erebor, will you not? A prince cannot remain away from home too long, I would imagine, even among those who live so long as the elves."

There's a momentary pause before Sûlclaur's response, and Legolas is watching the room - as much as he can, since they can't be where they can be seen from inside - with an expression that's less readable than before.

"Neighbors are important in considerations of an alliance, indeed, why else would Laketown and the Iron Hills have place at the treaty-table?"

Because they're as important as allies as Mirkwood, Ráva would imagine, and perhaps more so, in the case of the Men, but perhaps Sûlclaur doesn't see them that way.

"Will you sit?" There's a pause, and the sound of movement. "As you say, the time of Princes is seldom their own, their duties... many. But not all unpleasant. Young Fíli and Kíli have recovered well from the battle, have they not? It is good to see them mindful of responsibility and attentive to their duty."

Ráva blinks, confused as to what the princes have to do with the conversation at hand. He knows Síndri will be able to get where she needs to go, or at least he hopes, but at the moment, he's not quite sure how.

"They are healing well enough, and it is good to know they are much in the company of their uncle." Síndri's voice isn't as warm as Ráva's expecting, and he raises a mental eyebrow, wondering what's happened, or if something's happened. "It is a hopeful thing to see. They are, after all, still young enough to learn who are their best choices of friend and ally."

Suppressing a snort, Ráva rolls his eyes. He thinks Fíli and Kíli are doing good enough with that on their own, but maybe Síndri's just trying to divert Sûlclaur.

"Indeed, indeed. It would behoove us, then, to give them good examples."

Not that Sûlclaur would ever be a good example for anyone, Ráva's certain.

"What sort of example would your Prince have you set?"

There's a long pause between that question and Síndri's answer, and Ráva would love to know what's going through her head. Probably something not entirely complementary to either the prince of Steelwind Height or to Sûlclaur.

"I do as I might to set the example my Prince would expect of me. Though I would prefer to also set the example my Prince would not wish greatly, to achieve some true peace between those who are dwarrows and those who are not. Even if it is something that King Thorin might not entirely embrace."

Síndri's voice is steady and even, though her last is something that skirts insult to Thorin, and makes Ráva frown slightly. He knows Síndri wouldn't deliberately insult Thorin, but perhaps she must appear to, in order to draw Sûlclaur in.

"Unless it is another who is delaying bringing the treaty to signing? Some concession that is desired by Erebor that will not be met?"

The quiet that follows Síndri's question makes Ráva tilt his head back against the wall, not quite certain what to think, other than to hope that Sûlclaur damns himself before much longer.

"You would defy your Prince for this 'peace'? Thorin?"

That, Ráva doesn't expect, and barely hides a wince at that question.

"As I have said, I am here to seek the best interests of my people." Síndri's voice is almost gentle, as if she's trying to avoid causing trouble. "Peace would be of a benefit to them, and should my Prince's whims stand in the way of that peace, I would gladly defy him. Too, I would defy King Thorin for such a thing, if it is needful, but perhaps not as greatly as I might defy my own Prince, for he is here, and my Prince is not."

Another silence is followed by the scrape of a chair against the floor, and Sûlclaur saying, "Mistress Síndri, Daughter of Steelwind Height, you have given me much to think upon. I thank you for your time."

Ráva straightens as he hears footsteps, looking across the door at Legolas, whose expression is almost blank as he waits for Sûlclaur to come out. And then allows Sûlclaur to walk past him, toward the rooms the elves from Mirkwood are occupying. Which Ráva isn't quite sure he understands, but Sûlclaur has to have trapped himself, or Síndri would have sought some way of keeping him in the conversation.

"Prince Legolas. My Lord Ráva. Mister Baggins." Síndri isn't far behind Sûlclaur, and she doesn't respond to Ráva's smile save to give him a small frown. After a moment, she moves past them, going the opposite direction of Sûlclaur, probably to head for the baths.

* * *

"King Thorin requires your presence, Lord Ráva." Balin is watching Ráva with an expression that is something between pity and exasperation, if very little of either. "At once."

"Of course." Ráva smiles a moment, setting aside the bit of mending he's been working at since he'd come back to his room after the morning's events. He's not sure why Thorin thought it necessary to send Balin, but perhaps the dwarrow has other errands to run that brought him by Ráva's door.

As they walk the corridors - and why Balin is escorting him, Ráva isn't certain, but it doesn't bode well - there is a long silence only broken by a quiet sigh from Balin. "Why did you feel a need to meddle in politics, Lord Ráva?"

It sounds almost a rhetorical question, but Ráva answers after a long moment, regardless. "I asked Síndri to meddle as not to cause bloodshed." He does not know how much longer he could have kept his temper about him with Sûlclaur, and though he'd not have killed the elf, Ráva has no illusions that he would not have caused harm, and an incident which might have strained the already precarious relationship between Erebor and Mirkwood.

He doesn't think that's the sort of answer Balin is looking for, but there isn't time enough to continue the conversation before Balin ushers Ráva into Thorin's rooms ahead of him.

It's clear that Thorin isn't happy, though what exactly is causing his displeasure is not immediately obvious. Though perhaps Balin's question should have been a warning, and Ráva draws a breath, rethinking his earlier observation. Perhaps his plan had not been as well-thought out as he had hoped, though he cannot immediately see what flaw there might have been. He'd remained out of the fray himself as greatly as he could manage, and ensured that it had been heard by those who needed to.

Perhaps he should have avoided the arranged conversation this morning altogether?

"What did you want to see me about?" It's blunt, and Ráva suspects he already knows the answer, but he wants to be certain. He's beginning to think he's made a mistake, but he's not quite sure where, and he needs to tread carefully until he figures it out.

"My lord Ráva," Thorin begins, the words enough - from him - to put Ráva on edge, "why did you not speak to us before putting your plan in motion?"

Ráva blinks once, thoughts racing a moment. He's made more of a mistake than he'd thought, to be subject to this level of formality. The attire, Thorin still on the chair that serves as much as a throne as that in the throne room, the wording. Balin escorting him. Oh, he should have seen it.

"Because I am apparently something of an idiot, and did not think to do so." The insult of his own self is familiar and easy, though he hasn't had as much cause to use it in the past as he has since he's arrived at Erebor. The world here is not like the familiar woods and halls of home, where politics is something he's never had to pay attention to, and his role was always as the outsider who came and went as he pleased.

"And I do not know that I can promise I will never do such a thing again, though I am sorry if I have caused more trouble than I sought to avoid."

Thorin's expression shifts, almost a softening, a change Ráva would have missed if he'd not been paying close attention. Too, there is less of a tug at the back of his mind, where he still feels a sense of the anchor chain, though he'd not noticed it pulling until it had released, like a muscle used too much finally relaxing in the heat of a bath.

There is no other question asked, just a silence that settles like a familiar blanket about him. Ráva doesn't know what else Thorin is waiting for, so he doesn't speak, waiting instead for him to tell Ráva what he's looking for.

It's Balin, though, who speaks after a glance at Thorin. "Why, lad? Why'd you not think to discuss with us your plan? What were you hoping to accomplish?"

Tilting his head, Ráva frowns a little. "For Sûlclaur's poison to come out where Prince Legolas could hear it from Sûlclaur, rather than from someone he doesn't have cause to believe."

After all, it's no secret that Ráva hadn't thought much of Sûlclaur before, and rather actively dislikes him now. Indeed, it's likely well enough known that Ráva doesn't think much of any of the elves of Mirkwood, with the exception of Tílithluin, much less go so far as to like them.

"For why I did not think to speak of what I thought to do... Perhaps I am too accustomed to there being no great kingdom, no ruler who must know of what is done in their lands." Ráva shrugs, running a hand through his hair after a moment. "I have never had need to consult anyone about what I do, save when I am at the forge where Haldasîcil is the absolute authority."

Thorin doesn't look away as he stands, and Ráva can feel the warmth of Flame against him, can see it glittering more brightly about Thorin than he has seen in weeks. He blinks again, a sense of dread rather like when he'd disappointed Haldasîcil twisting in his gut.

"The Mountain is a Forge," Thorin says, quiet and deliberate. The gleam of Flame all but etches those words in the air between them, on Ráva's skin and soul. "I am Smith here."

Smith, and Ráva had been a poor second to forget it, and not even _think_ to ask if he might do as he had thought would work. To ask if he might conduct such a plan in the Forge. Aiee.

He's barely aware he's knelt, though he is full aware of bowing his head, submission to his Smith that feels as natural and _right_ as the same to Haldasîcil. He does not ask forgiveness, though he hopes he might have it, for there is no asking for such of a Smith in their Forge. Only doing as he's been instructed, and not failing again.

Ráva's lips twitch with the desire to smile wryly as Thorin tilts his head up, much like Ráva's mother might, when wanting him to meet her gaze, though usually her expression is not so stern.

"You understand." There is no question there, though Ráva almost wants to nod in answer. There's a moment's silence before Thorin nods, and returns to his chair to sit once more. His voice is lighter than before, but not truly conversational yet. "I will accept your apology, presently. Tell me, what did Bayurfilhkûn have you do, in like circumstance?"

Disobedience in the Forge was to be banished from the Forge for a time, though the length of such varied. "I was to leave the Forge, to return only when given leave."

If Thorin takes a like tactic, Ráva will have to think on where to go, for he will not step under the eaves of the forest, not here. Even though he's been here little more than a month, he cannot feel comfortable taking shelter even for a season among those who have no affection and little tolerance, that he has seen, for dwarrows or Men.

There's quiet for a long moment, then Thorin tells him to sit, though does not direct him move to a chair, at least. Balin is settling in at the scribe's desk, where Ori often was during the meetings that Ráva had so little patience for.

"You said your plan was 'For Sûlclaur's poison to come out where Prince Legolas could hear it from Sûlclaur, rather than from someone he doesn't have cause to believe.' Explain. And then tell what you observed, and what you think it means."

Ráva shifts so he's seated on the floor, though he doesn't allow himself to take the easy posture he so often does when talking to Thorin. This is not the place for that, not this time. "What Sûlclaur said to me needed to be heard by Prince Legolas, but why should he believe me if I told him what was told to me? I am not one of his own, nor a friend of such - indeed, I do not doubt he's aware I do not much like those west-walkers I have met, save for Tílithluin."

He takes a breath, glancing away a moment as he thinks, before returning his gaze to Thorin. "Nor could I be the one to confront Sûlclaur about it, for he would know to guard his words. I made no effort to hide what I thought of what he said, after all. It was easy enough to think of Síndri for such a task, as the hall she hails from is known for their politics - particularly the inherent danger of any outsider trying to tread those waters. She knows how to deal with such a delicate task where I do not."

Another breath, and he relates the conversation as he had heard it, though he admits to having likely missed some of the earliest part. Thinking as he does on what it might mean, though he's not entirely certain what that might be. "I have not spoken to Síndri since then, so I am unsure what entirely it means, though my hope is that it will in part mean that Sûlclaur will be given less room in the negotiations, if not left out entirely."

Truly, he hopes it means that Sûlclaur will be sent back to Mirkwood, for as he had said the morning after the first confrontation, with an ally like him, they needed no enemies. He would tear them apart and push them down as best he could.

There is silence when he is done, with Thorin watching him for a long moment before he speaks. Ráva doesn't shift, though he wonders for a moment what Thorin is thinking.

"Well and completely told. Thank you." Thorin stands as he speaks, slow and weary - no doubt from the long day, and the edge of Flame just a little while past now; Ráva is somewhat worried, but Balin is there to steady Thorin before Ráva can offer. "Now I have much to think about. You will have my decision in the morning."

He does not look back as he makes his way through to the inner rooms, and Ráva doesn't move to follow. Waiting, indeed, until Thorin has left before he makes his way back to his own rooms, settling on the floor in front of the banked hearth. He would prefer to retreat to his usual place in the mountain to think, but it is better at the moment to be where Thorin can readily find him, rather than appearing to sulk.

* * *

The next morning, Ráva eats breakfast alone before approaching Thorin's rooms, almost hesitating a moment before he enters. Looking past Thorin's chair to his usual place before looking back at Thorin, raising an eyebrow in silent question. Does he stay, or does he return to his rooms to pack, so he might travel before the snows - not that he thinks the latter likely, but he cannot dismiss a nagging hint of fear from the back of his mind.

A fear he thinks - hopes - is more that here, the Smith is mortal, and Ráva does not like the idea of wandering far and long as he might when Haldasîcil bars him from the forge at home. It would not do to find himself fearing parting from a place, even one with as many he might call friend as Erebor is now.

There is naught to tell him he may not, at least for now, take his usual place, nor does Thorin tell him to leave. It eases the fear a little, but it still niggles as he settles next to the wall - he cannot let himself relax against the stone as he has before, not when he's still uncertain what will happen.

When the elves from Mirkwood arrive, Sûlclaur is not in his usual place, and Ráva almost smiles, before he sees Sûlclaur where usually one of the others is. Reduced in rank, but not yet gone; which thing, while relieving some of Ráva's worries, does not dismiss them as he might hope.

Even seeing Tílithluin sitting in a place of honor near Legolas doesn't stop his worries, though it does make him smile, glad to see her more prominent among the elves - and that the others present seem to be isolating Sûlclaur is interesting.

He watches Legolas, waiting to see what the prince might say on the change, if anything. Ráva is more aware than usual that he's not good enough at politics to pick up some of the more subtle nuances of the dance. Or, indeed, even the less subtle nuances. He almost wishes he weren't present, but he'd not been told to leave yet, and he won't leave until commanded.

It takes a moment for the room to settle, and then Balin opens the meetings as he always does, asking if there is any business that needs to be brought up before the return to where they left off before.

"If I may," Legolas begins, nodding to both Thorin and Bard, "there is a matter concerning both this council and the treaty. Lord Sûlclaur will be returning to the Greenwood as soon as suitable escort may be arranged. Ryssróvail will be taking over as advisor, and all objections are withdrawn to the naming of the lady Tílithluin to the post of Envoy, should she wish it."

There is a sense of ease in the back of his mind, of tension released, and Ráva settles a little against the wall, though he still cannot bring himself to be as at ease as he has been in the past. While there is change, this is not yet done, even he can see that. What else will happen, he's not yet certain, though.

"With the question of the Envoy from the Greenwood no longer in contention, I believe we may come to a preliminary settlement of terms in short order, as the remaining undecided points are few. As Sûlclaur is well acquainted with the work we have done here, I would like to be able to send a copy of the complete draft with him, that he might properly advise my father of what we have agreed."

Legolas turns to Sûlclaur, and adds, "Lord Sûlclaur, as I am soon to lose the voice of your experience and knowledge, I would have you stay with the council this day. But I believe you have an apology to make."

Sûlclaur looks distinctly unhappy about that, and Ráva suppresses a smile as the elf apologizes to Thorin - one of the apologies he needs to make, in Ráva's estimation, but perhaps the one Sûlclaur feels is the more important. It does a little more to ease Ráva's tension, though he thinks he will not be able to relax entirely until the end of the meeting, or at least until he is certain what will happen for his part in this mess.

"I hear you. I will have more to say, but there is another owed apology more than I."

Thorin's words are measured and precise, and Ráva cannot stop a small smirk from crossing his face when Sûlclaur's expression tightens further before the elf does as he's told. It takes a moment for Ráva to settle his expression into something at least not as smug as he had been before. It does him no good to feel so, after all, when there are still threads of fear and remorse running through the back of his mind - fear for what might happen, and remorse for failing his Smith.

"Thank you." Tílithluin's voice is quiet and almost gentle - certainly kinder than Ráva would be under similar circumstances. "I shall certainly do my best. I accept your apology, and I hope your journey home is swift and safe."

There is quiet a moment, and Ráva can see Thorin straighten, and seem to gather himself, which makes Ráva tense, certain of what's coming next, though there hadn't been much discussion of things the night before. He hates the feeling of dread that gathers in the pit of his stomach, but does his best to pretend it isn't there.

"Glad as I am that the question of Tílithluin as Envoy is settled," Thorin says with a nod that would make Ráva smile if he didn't feel taut as a bowstring, "the matter of an escort through the lands between Mountain and Wood is not a light one. Prince Legolas, I would name Lord Ráva to that duty, as Captain of what force might be advised."

Hearing his banishment, however temporary, announced, releases some of Ráva's tension, even as it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth that is a reminder he should not meddle where he's not adept at it. He watches Legolas as the elf is silent a moment, if not a silence that seems to precede a refusal.

"Certainly. I will be glad to accept."

Ráva tilts his head in acknowledgement, uncertain for a moment of his voice. He sounds no doubt as petulant as a sulking child when he says, "It shall be my honor to serve in such a duty." He'll bear the task with as much grace as he can manage, though he thinks he might have wished something more open-ended as Haldasîcil might have imposed - for this duty implies an expected return at a set point in time, something he's never had before.

Though, he will grant, he has not yet had a Smith such as Thorin before, whose lifespan will end.

"Ráva." Thorin's voice is steady, and it's a moment before Ráva can look up to meet his gaze as easily as he might wish. Not out of shame or guilt, he firmly tells himself, but just uncertainty. "I charge you with the task of the escort of Lord Sûlclaur and the treaty-draft to the safety of the Woodland and your own return hence in good time."

There's something in his gaze that Ráva can't place, but perhaps will ask about later. He can't here.

"I leave the arrangements in your hands. And, since I too will soon be without your advice for a time, the afternoon will be soon enough for you to take that up." Giving Ráva no escape from the boredom, but there's a reassurance there too, that Thorin would keep him close. That his Smith might be upset at his actions, and wish him to think on them and not commit such an offense again, but that he will be allowed to return - even expected to return - soon.

He at least makes an attempt to pay attention through the rest of the morning, though he finds it almost as tedious as before despite the swiftness of business being conducted such that the treaty-draft is nearly complete by the break for lunch. At the break for lunch, though, he makes his escape, first seeking out Vorkha to find his opinion of who might be best to take with him on the journey to Mirkwood and back, and then to take himself to his favored place to listen to the mountain and settle his mind.

It's enough to keep him until he's on the road, Sûlclaur and one of the men of Dale who knows the area well enough his only company. Traveling is a familiar sensation, the road running ahead and behind, the pack of supplies on his back, his sword underneath, but still easily reached. Silence is not as familiar a companion, but at the moment, it's a welcome one, since Ráva doesn't know the one companion well enough to talk with him, and he wants nothing to do with Sûlclaur.

"Why do you care so much for her?" Sûlclaur looks both curious and slightly disgusted, and Ráva wonders if he's blind or simply foolish, to ask that. "She is Noldor."

"It's not that I care greatly for Tílithluin - though I do count her as a friend, and caution you to think about your words before you insult her again. It is that I find your insistence that any group must be inherently worse than another because of the actions of a few among them to be something of the worst stupidity." Ráva keeps more of his attention on the road in front of them than on Sûlclaur.

"They did not merely slay other eldar, they began a war that slew countless numbers of our kin." Sûlclaur comes closer, walking beside Ráva, and Ráva has to stop himself from hurrying too obviously ahead, though he does force Sûlclaur to walk faster to keep up. "All over greed and their own arrogance."

"Those I call kin still live." Ráva looks ahead, judging the distance to the forest - entirely too far to travel in one day, much to his displeasure. "Nor did any avari die in those wars, to my knowledge. Indeed, there are few who travel beyond the Orocarni, to have put themselves in such danger. The wars you speak of did not affect my kin. Nor do I blame the dead for the deaths of those dwarrows and Men who fell in those wars."

"How can you not?" Sûlclaur is frowning, and Ráva stops, turning to look at him with irritation.

"They are _dead_. They have paid for whatever misdeeds they may have done while they lived. Nor are wars solely the fault of any one party - there must be at least two parties for a war to occur, if not more. Do you blame the orcs for the wars? The masters of the Darkness? For surely they are as at fault as the Noldor you claim are the reason the wars were fought."

"Orcs were made for war..."

"No." Ráva cuts Sûlclaur off with a gesture, as well as the sharply spoken word. "They were not made. They were corrupted from the forms of those who I might have once called kin. They were twisted, and bred, but they were not _made_."

"The histories..."

"Are wrong." Ráva meets Sûlclaur's gaze steadily, letting every bit of his bitter rage at the Darkness and at the assumptions he's heard spoken in whispers since he arrived show. "Written by those who were not here, about matters they could not know."

"They cannot be completely wrong. There were those of the Silvan eldar who were taken, and made into orcs." Sûlclaur's expression is steady, if a little pale, and stubborn. "And how else should I call what had been done to those so taken?"

"Call those originally taken twisted, and the rest bred. You cannot make what already exists, you can only shape it. The first orcs, the ones who were twisted from those taken under the stars, were not made, as were my mother, her bond-brothers, and those from whom your kin descend. As were Durin and the mothers and fathers of the dwarrows; as were the first of the race of Men."

Sûlclaur blinks, as if Ráva has said something he had not been expecting. "Your mother?"

"My mother awoke on the shores of the Great Sea, yes." Ráva sighs, and turns away, continuing on the road. "She and her bond-brothers led those who desired to avoid both the Blinding One and the Master of the Darkness over the Orocarni, and made a home along what is called now the Hîthduin."

At least giving Sûlclaur that piece of knowledge keeps him silent for a while longer, and allows Ráva to settle his temper somewhat. Not for long enough, but Ráva is glad even for the brief silence.

"Why do you call Oromë the Blinding One?" Sûlclaur's choice of questions makes Ráva pinch the bridge of his nose, wondering if he could truly explain why the Avari had given that name to the one the west-walkers had followed.

"Have you ever truly seen the feä of those who came first? Or the Flame of Mahal in a dwarrow of the line of Durin?" Ráva doesn't expect an answer from Sûlclaur, and continues without giving him a chance to answer. "It is akin to staring into the sun - stare too long, and you will go blind. Ever my mother has said that those who followed him to the west had become blind to their own selves from watching him too long."

There's a moment of silence, and Sûlclaur's voice holds both his usual arrogance and a genuine puzzlement when he speaks again. "There are few who have a feä bright enough to be seen through their flesh, and certainly not any dwarf."

Ráva blinks, and stops again, turning to look at Sûlclaur with incredulity. He'd expected that the west-walkers had lost some of the ability to see, or at least the ability to care, since there had been no effort to teach Thorin how to shield his flame, but he had not expected them to forget even that it was possible to see.

"Can you truly not see it? None of you? I thought it was perhaps that you'd not cared, for Tílithluin could see what I spoke of, though I think she does not see as easily as do I." Ráva cannot keep the surprise out of his voice, nor the shock. "Even Men as our third travel companion have something akin to the Flame of Mahal, or the feä that burns in each avari and elda, though the form of it is not the same in any of them. Even the _hobbit_ burns, to my sight, if I do not keep the walls about my mind up. Can you see _none_ of that?"

"The healers speak of such sight," Sûlclaur says slowly, his brow furrowed. "I have no reason to doubt them, though I have never seen a person's feä."

Ráva closes his eyes, tilting his head back a little to feel the winter sun on his face. The lack of sight might explain something of Sûlclaur's intransigence over the relative value of different people that Ráva cannot understand. "It is something that I have never been without - indeed, as a child, I had to learn to shield my vision from seeing others. As you might put up a hand to block the light from the sun from your eyes."

"Such children as you describe are generally inclined to the Healing Arts, as I understand it. But you are not like any of the Healers of my acquaintance." It is a statement of dry fact, not opprobrium, and there is still a note of puzzlement behind the even tones.

"Certainly, all of the Speaking Peoples have some measure of Eru's spark, else they would not be People. But for it to be visible in one not of the First-born? And blindingly?" Sûlclaur makes a gesture that seems more incomprehension than disbelief.

Ráva snorts, opening his eyes to give Sûlclaur a wryly amused look. "My mother is a shaper of wood and stone, her bond-brothers Smiths, and my brother a tree-talker. All are warriors. Think you that I would have any reason to be a healer, with those about me?" He shakes his head. "Even my father is no healer, and he is little enough a warrior, either."

Pressing his lips together a moment, he contemplates the rest of what Sûlclaur has said. "It is not so bright in other dwarrows - indeed, in most, it isn't at all bright, nor particularly... focused. In the line of Durin, though, it's very clear, and in those who are closest to the direct line - such as Thorin, and in time, the princes - it can be incredibly bright. Without that strength, they would not be able to make the Works they have."

"Works?" Sûlclaur is staring at Ráva, as if he can't quite believe what Ráva has just said. " _Arcane_ works?"

Covering his eyes, Ráva is silent for a moment, so he can be certain he doesn't either laugh in Sûlclaur's face, or yell. "Stars! What do you _think_ Thorin was doing in that charge that turned the battle? He certainly wasn't bloody knitting!"

At least he hadn't begun that yelling, though Ráva's voice is certainly louder than he'd intended by the end. He sighs, pinching the brow of his nose again, taking a deep breath to try to calm himself down.

The silence that meets his words makes Ráva look at Sûlclaur, watching the flickering of emotion across his face - the realization that there was something more than he had seen. It makes Ráva want to roll his eyes, but he manages to keep from doing so with an effort. How could Sûlclaur not have seen it before? How could he have avoided the truth so well? As well to ask how those who walked west had thought they were doing their people any favors, when they are all gone beyond asking.

"I have not seen him knit, no. Though I would not put it past him." Sûlclaur's voice is shaken, and there's perhaps a note of respect, and that at least makes it easier to refrain from any outward display of either annoyance or smug satisfaction.

"Neither would I, in all honesty. He is not the sort to be satisfied in doing nothing - and he cannot do as much as he would like." Ráva knows between Balin, Bilbo, and the rest, they will keep Thorin from over-taxing himself as he heals, though there's still a kernel of worry that will not leave until he has seen that Thorin is still well and healing himself, upon his return to the mountain. It is a familiar nagging, and it makes him smile a little. "I have not known a Smith who isn't aggravated by being told to rest."

"Such a person would not be a Smith, I think," Sûlclaur says slowly, as if still feeling his way through the revelation. It would not surprise Ráva if he were.

"Perhaps not." Ráva watches Sûlclaur for a moment more, before he starts walking again. The forest doesn't get any closer if they do not walk, and he's not entirely convinced that the area around the mountain is safe, even weeks after the battle - if even one orc escaped death, they will keep trying to cause trouble. Even the most sheltered avari along the river knows that.

He regrets that thought soon after it passes through his mind, as motion catches his attention, and he reaches up to grab the hilt of his sword, unsheathing the blade - star-iron and black-steel and Flame, with an edge that hasn't dulled since it was made - with the soft hiss of metal on leather. Watching and waiting until the orc-band seems to boil up from the marsh that lies to the north of the road.

A snarl crosses his face, and he strikes first, lashing out with a two-handed blow at the nearest orc that takes its head off. The battle is short, if fierce, and Ráva has to kill more than one orc who notices Sûlclaur doesn't have his head in the fight, for all that he fights with no little skill. It's enough for Ráva that they all three survive, and don't take any new wounds - his own may have healed weeks ago, but he can imagine the sort of reaction that new ones would garner him. He doesn't care to spend time with the healers, no matter how good they are at their work.

It takes a moment after he realizes he has no more orcs to slay to make himself lower his blade enough to not appear an immediate threat, the sword still all but singing in his hand, fiercely glad to protect him, and slay the twisted creatures. He can't yet bring himself to release the hilt, though, and he scans the land north of the road, looking for more orcs. They are, however, all gone, and Ráva turns to look at Sûlclaur and the man - whose name he really ought to learn. The man appears to be fine, but Sûlclaur still appears to be paler than usual.

"Were you injured?" Ráva had thought he'd done well enough in watching Sûlclaur's back - and the man had been right with them, so able to defend where neither Ráva nor Sûlclaur could - to avoid such, but perhaps an orc had done some harm before being killed.

"No." Sûlclaur watches Ráva a long moment, barely-concealed confusion on his face. "You kept them from my back, when I could not."

Ráva frowns, confused now himself. "Of course I did. I wouldn't leave anyone to orcs, even those I call enemy." He slides his pack free of his shoulders, reaching into it for a cloth to clean his sword, using some of the water from one of the skins to help remove some of the blood that was beginning to dry, and focusing on his blade so he doesn't have to pay any real attention to Sûlclaur. "Hopefully there won't be any more orcs today, though I wouldn't care to stay here. Or indeed, dawdle too much on the road, in case there are still more orc bands intent on preying on those who travel along here."

"My thanks then." Sûlclaur's tone is stiff, making Ráva frown slightly as he works at removing the blood from the incised lines of the quillions. "I assure you I am neither shadow-spawn nor dark-fallen. But I shall not try your mercy further."

Ráva stops working, turning his head to stare at Sûlclaur. Where had he gotten the idea that Ráva thought of him as if he were part of the Darkness? Or that Ráva's defense of his person had been any sort of mercy?

"I never said you were of the Darkness, Sûlclaur. Nor that defending even an enemy against orcs was a mercy, simply what must be. To do otherwise would be to become one of those twisted and turned to the Darkness, and I am no more of that sort than you."

"No, you are not, nor have I said or thought otherwise." Sûlclaur speaks as if he's trying to impart a lesson to someone who's being particularly dense, and Ráva grimaces, checking the blade of his sword a last time before he slides it home in its sheath. He doesn't understand Sûlclaur's thought process, and at the moment, it doesn't much matter - the elf has already begun the task of gathering the bodies where they cannot poison the local waters as they rot.

Ráva starts helping, the man working alongside them as well, until they have all the bodies piled on a rocky outcrop that should keep most of the rot away from the water. He doubts, though, there are scavengers who would touch orc, which means returning here to burn the bodies when they can.

Sûlclaur is looking at the pile with an expression of distaste and horror, and after a moment, he says, with visible effort, "Those, that, is the _enemy_ ," before shuddering, and turning away.

Looking after him, Ráva frowns in puzzlement before shaking his head. "They're just orcs, part of the Darkness. Perhaps once they might have been enemy, but they're just something to be slain now." He doesn't try to elaborate further, since it appears Sûlclaur will not understand him, any more than he understands Sûlclaur. Perhaps he will ask Tílithluin to explain Sûlclaur's words when he returns to the Mountain.

The rest of the trip to Mirkwood passes in relative silence, with Sûlclaur dodging Ráva as much as he can, and Ráva - after spending an hour trying to circumvent Sûlclaur's avoidance - lets him. Tyrran seems content enough to talk to him, if quietly in deference to Sûlclaur's apparent wish now for silence, and Ráva finds the man interesting enough to pass the few days of walking in conversation with him.

After they have left Sûlclaur in the care of those who guard Mirkwood and its inhabitants, the conversation lapses for a few hours, until they are far enough from the eaves of the forest that even the sharpest of ears will not to hear them.

"Why do you not think of orcs as enemy?" The question is unexpected, and Ráva looks over at Tyrran with a bit of exasperation. He doesn't want to have to explain, if he's only going to get confusion in response as he did with Sûlclaur.

"You don't call a hungry bear an enemy when it attacks the animals you keep, do you?" Ráva waits for Tyrran to shake his head. "Why, then, should I call an orc enemy, when they have no more control over their instinct to destroy than a bear has over its hunger?"

"But you told Sûlclaur they were twisted from kidnapped avari." Tyrran is frowning, though his expression is more thoughtful than Sûlclaur's had ever seemed. "How can you not think of them as people still?"

"Because they're no longer people. Perhaps once they were, but I see nothing of those who might have once been my kin in those creatures which attacked us on the road." Ráva shrugs, not sure why Tyrran had even asked that. "How can I? They are twisted past all recognition, and never have I heard of one turning from the destruction they are set upon wreaking."

Tyrran is quiet for a long moment, a thoughtful frown still on his face. At least he's not looking lost, and for that, Ráva is glad. "And the Shadow? How is that evil not an enemy?"

"An idea is not an enemy, even the Darkness. The Masters of the Darkness would be enemies, but not the Darkness itself." Ráva looks toward the Mountain, studying the silhouette of the peak for a long moment, and trying to put into words what he's never really thought about in his life. "There is no malice, nor honor, in fighting something which cannot think for itself. You fight to live, to defend your home against it, but you cannot destroy it, not entirely - and if you try, it's too easy to _become_ what you fight."

There is another silence, though this one is shorter, before Tyrran turns the conversation to other things, leaving the tangled question of orcs alone for now.

* * *

At the gates, Bifur is waiting, looking him over before nodding, and gesturing for Ráva to follow him. They only seem to be going back to where Ráva's rooms are located, but when he made to stop there, Bifur snorted, crossing his arms with an expression that Ráva can easily read as annoyance. Raising an eyebrow in return, Ráva leaves his pack and his sword inside before coming back out - he doesn't need a sword on him when he's home.

That thought makes him stop a moment, blinking, before he shakes his head, following Bifur down to the baths, though it takes him a little longer than he likes to think to realize their destination. That there are people there isn't a surprise - but _who_ is there, and the welcomes they all extend, that is rather more of one.

"You look like you could use a good scrub before you soak properly." Síndri is watching him with a critical eye, leaning her chin on folded arms on the edge of the second pool. "What did you do while you were gone, bathe in the dirt?"

"Killed orcs and was very confused by a traveling companion." Ráva doesn't want to name which - and doubts he needs to. He strips off the clothing he's been wearing for the last several days before walking to the hottest pool and sliding in. It's blissful against his skin, and after a long moment, he accepts the bath-sponge passed to him, and catches the soap Síndri throws at him.

"We found the orc-pile." Dwalin is leaning back against the edge of the tub, watching Ráva with amusement. "Burned it."

"Good." Ráva scrubs at the accumulated travel-grime on his skin, glad for the hot baths that every dwarrow-hall he's been to have. No cold stream, or hot water limited by what he can fit in a pot over a fire or at a hearth. "If you had not yet, I would have mentioned it, so that could be done."

"No need to have it poison the river, once we found it." Dwalin shrugs before moving along the ledge to slightly deeper water. "You did well, if none of you were injured."

"Not for lack of trying." Ráva huffs a little, before ducking under the water to wet his hair, even though he doesn't intend to actually wash it. It's good to rinse the dried sweat out of the fine strands. "I did, though, deliver my least favorite travel companion safely home."

"Better there than here." Síndri wrinkles her nose at the mention of Sûlclaur. "Never thought I'd be dealing with Steelwind-style politics away from home."

"Most of the time, you've not enough rank to deal with those sorts of people." Vorkha doesn't even open his eyes when he retorts from where he's been soaking in the second pool, close to the channel between it and the hottest pool. "War-Master Dwalin has to deal with them most, and then myself and Orvar, and Alari and Gulvár."

"Only when you have to make contract with them." Bjarkha rolls over to hook her elbows over the wall between the tepid pool and the second pool, giving Vorkha an amused look. "Not something I've seen you do more than once."

"They don't pay if they can find an excuse not to," Dwalin growls, before he flicks water in Bjarkha's direction. "No talking business in the bath."

"Best place to do it," Bjarkha shoots back unrepentantly. "No one's complaining about it being too cold or too hot, and everyone's relaxed."

Ráva smirks, shaking his head in amusement as he moves to place the soap on the edge of the pool, pausing only when Bifur raises an eyebrow, gesturing for Ráva to turn around. Hesitating only a moment, Ráva nods, handing soap and bath-sponge to Bifur, and kneeling easily on the bottom of the pool to allow the dwarrow to scrub his back.

"It's practically impossible to be tense in a good hot pool." Bofur had been in the second pool when Ráva arrived, and it's the first time he's seen the dwarrow without his hat. "Though I think that one up there is a bit hotter than the ones back in the Ered Luin."

"The baths of Erebor have been the best since they were first carved and plumbed." Dori is sitting next to Síndri, finger-combing her hair. "I have missed them, though I'd never seen these."

"You started without us!" Kíli's voice drowns out whatever anyone else might have said, and Ráva looks toward the arch that leads toward Thorin's rooms as the two princes come out of it, Fíli still at Kíli's elbow, as he's been for the last two months and more. "Uncle Thorin sends his apologies, Ráva, but he's not being allowed to escape."

"I will talk to him later." Ráva smiles, shrugging before he shifts deeper into the water as Bifur steps away, rinsing the soap from his shoulders. After, he finds a place on one of the ledges near the second pool, sprawling out so he remains immersed in the water up to his chin. Tílithluin is on the other side, and Ráva smiles at her briefly before taking advantage of the princes' noisy preparation and climbing into the hot pool to murmur, "Could you perhaps explain to me why Sûlclaur thinks Darkness and enemy are the same word?" It comes out a bit more plaintive than curious, but Ráva finds he doesn't mind terribly much.

"Because they are?" Tílithluin's answer sounds almost as if she's stating the obvious, and Ráva waits until she adds, "In use, if not in origin." Her expression, as she sits up in the water, is puzzled, and Ráva wonders just how much the frustration of the conversation on the trip had been because he really doesn't think of the Darkness as enemy - problematic, and worth fighting, to be sure, but not enemy. "Why do you ask?"

"It was a sticking point of our conversation during the trip." Ráva closes his eyes a moment, trying to think of how to explain. "I do not think of the Darkness as enemy, just." He pauses, grimacing a moment. "Part of life. Not a pleasant one, and one to be fought constantly, but not an enemy."

At the lack of response, Ráva opens his eyes, studying Tílithluin for a long moment. There's an expression on her face that he's not quite sure how to interpret, though confusion and perhaps some fear are part of it. After a moment, her expression focuses, and is less strange to him, though her attention seems more on the reflections on the water than anything else.

"Westron does not have the... nuance... of Sindarin. The same word is used for dark-of-night and dark-of-soul. 'Darkness is not the problem, not even when used to refer to the Great Darkness, just as 'shadow' means both the dimness that results from something standing between the ground and the light, and That which would devour all Light. Both are terms which even now encompass both daily, simple, ordinary things, and those works and evils and servants of..."

She stops, and Ráva looks at her again, a small frown of worry on his face, that deepens when the frustration he sees in her expression at first seems to give way to fear, and she shivers. He shifts, sitting up some in the water, his hand coming to rest on the wall between the pools.

"Of S-sauron and his Master. Darkness-Made-Form."

Ráva has always called those who use the Darkness the Masters of it because he has no name for them. None who might know the names speak of them, and now that he has at least one, he marks it as the name of an enemy in his mind. Never to be forgotten, because to forget an enemy is to forget to fight them.

He reaches out when Tílithluin wraps her arms around herself, though he doesn't quite touch, uncertain if she would want the silent comfort right now, or even if it would help.

"We _do not_ name them. They are the Enemy. Over the years, the very word 'enemy' has come to mean _them. Him._ Him and his creatures that move and speak and think, however twisted or slow or ill-made." She takes a breath, and Ráva returns his hand to the wall for the moment. Waiting for her to finish, because he thinks he can begin to see where he and Sûlclaur could not understand each other.

"Those we might fight in battle or otherwise stand in opposition to, who are not Orcs or other evils of Darkness, are foes, or opponents, or 'ruddy, thieving bastards', not 'enemies'. There is only one Enemy, and any of the Speaking Peoples who is of the light is, by current definition, not an enemy. Do you understand?" Tílithluin looks over to meet his gaze, and Ráva gives her a brief smile, his brow furrowed as he sorts the information.

"I think perhaps our languages have grown apart enough that it is not immediately obvious - and too, that our histories and neighbors are different." The Mallenrim might once have called the Masters of the Darkness their Enemy, but they have since come to adopt the way of the Hlónaner and the avari, to call all they fight enemy.

"For us, the Masters of the Darkness - who I knew no names for until today - are indeed enemies, and those who we fight in defense of ourselves, our homes, or our friends. But I had not thought it had a greater significance here, and certainly how Sûlclaur attempted to explain it made little sense. For orcs are not, to us, of enough intelligence nor significance to be called an enemy. Just a pestilence, a plague to be destroyed with sword and arrow and fire."

He pauses, reaching out to touch Tílithluin's arm briefly, silent offer of apology and comfort both. "I see now why he thought I had called him evil when I said I would not leave even an enemy to orcs."

"Yes." Tílithluin curves the corner of her mouth up in a wry smile. "That is precisely what he would have heard, in as much as he would likely have made sense of that at all. Orcs most definitely do count as 'enemy' to us, though I do see your thought on why you do not."

It's at least good that he's been able to make his reasons for his confusion clear, and Ráva returns Tílithluin's smile when hers warms.

"And we quite agree on the pestilential nature of them."

Ráva is about to answer when a small wave of water comes crashing into them from the hot pool, a grinning Fíli standing up a moment later, raising an eyebrow at them as if daring either Ráva or Tílithluin to retaliate.

Not that either of them have a chance to do so before Fíli is yanked off his feet by Dwalin, and dumped into the water - the wave had hit the war-master as well, and he smiles in satisfaction as he comes back up from having dragged Fíli under, settling back on the ledge. It doesn't last long, and soon everyone is splashing, or trying to get away from the mayhem of a good-natured fight, most of them laughing and shouting cheerful insults.

Moving away from the worst of it, Ráva slips over the barrier into the tepid pool, and flinching a moment at the temperature change. He has no intention of leaving unless someone comes looking for him with something that must be done immediately. Or unless Thorin sends for him to come to the Smith, rather than coming here to the pools himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long wait on this chapter - Ráva was being very stubborn about scenes with or about Sûlclaur, so getting them done was a pain. Hopefully this will be the majority of such, and he’ll be more cooperative for the rest of the story (and quit hiding, for all that the other characters are fun to play with).
> 
> And as for the new tag - Unreliable Narrator - that has to do with Ráva and his inability to see some things that are blindingly obvious to others. I realize that makes Sûlclaur a fairly unsympathetic character, but hopefully there is a certain degree of redemption for him in the other story in which he will play a much larger part - Shadows of Gundabad, which will have the prologue and first chapter posted as soon as the first chapter is complete.


End file.
